


show me where your armor ends

by treeviality



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: (well not really enemies. but you know.), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Disabled Essek Thelyss, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Found Familes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Essek Thelyss, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Royal Spymaster Essek Thelyss, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22422778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treeviality/pseuds/treeviality
Summary: People are rarely as honest as they seem to be, their motives are rarely as noble, their hands are rarely as clean. To be the Shadowhand to the Bright Queen is to always look past the light, no matter how enticing the light can be. It is to look to the darkness underneath, to the shadows in the corners, to the truth behind the lies.But the fact of the matter is, Essek is tired at times — and then he wishes for stupid things.
Relationships: Essek Thelyss & Caleb Widogast, Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 73
Kudos: 222





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I've been writing this story for months now, tweaking it weekly to make it canon-compliant (or, well, canon-adjacent), and then Ep. 91 went and jossed like half of the premise, and frankly, I lost my mind a little. Which is why we are here!  
>  2\. I know that's not how magic works in d&d. And I suspect that's not how physics works in real life.   
>  3\. There is a lot of worldbuilding and quite a few original characters in this story. I know that's not for everyone, so here's your warning.   
>  4\. Essek, in this story, is physically disabled. I am not. If I do something wrong, please tell me. I promise to do better in the future.  
>  5\. English isn't my first language. If something sounds weird, it's not you, it's me. Rest assured that I'll discover it someday and die a little bit inside.  
> 

*

tell me about despair, yours,

and I will tell you mine

*

The fact of the matter is, Essek is tired at times.

People are rarely as honest as they seem to be, their motives are rarely as noble, their hands are rarely as clean. To be the Shadowhand to the Bright Queen is to always look past the light, no matter how enticing the light can be. It is to look to the darkness underneath, to the shadows in the corners, to the truth behind the lies.

But the fact of the matter is, Essek is tired at times — and then he wishes for stupid things. He wishes for there to be truth to fairy tales, for there to be friendship and bravery and honor. He wishes for the Mighty Nein to really be the Heroes of the Dynasty rather than yet another obvious threat on his hands. He wishes for their kindness to be genuine, for their loyalty to be indisputable.

He wishes and wishes — but his wishes are inconsequential.

As Essek enters his home, familiar magic settles over the windows and walls. Protective spells click softly as their threads connect, the sound reminding Essek of the rusty lock on his old bedroom door. Finally, silence settles around him like a warm cloak, and he breathes out a sigh of relief.

The moment he steps into the living room, Acantha hoots softly and dives from her perch by the window to land on his shoulder. She tucks in her fluffy wings and presses her little beak to Essek’s neck.

“Hello,” Essek says warmly, relaxing his shoulders to let the little owl settle comfortably. “Did you have a good day?”

Acantha hoots again, poking at Essek’s neck, just hard enough to make a point.

“No,” Essek agrees, moving further into the blessed silence of his home, “neither did I.”

He still has reports to go through, spells to revise, people to speak with. All of it urgent, as all matters in Rosohna are, especially now, with the Beacon returned to them in such a shocking manner, and with the imperial mercenaries now under his watch. But instead of heading to his office, Essek makes his way to the library.

There is a mechanical lock on the inside of the door, the only one in the entire house, and Essek locks it carefully by hand, the last of tension finally leaving his shoulders.

Books take up space on every wall, the letters on their spines shimmering with silver and gold in the dim candlelight. There is a fireplace, too, flames roaring to life as Essek passes the threshold. And there is a bay window, with a nest of blankets and pillows on the floor.

Essek moves to the window, with Acantha already dozing off in the crook of his neck. Slowly, with hard-won grace, he loosens his hold on the magic keeping him upright. His legs bend beneath him, useless in supporting his weight, but he no longer drops to his knees as he once would. He settles comfortably instead. The relief of it is, as always, staggering; he is so used to using magic every minute of every day that he no longer notices the inconvenience until it’s gone.

Acantha hoots sleepily on his shoulder and Essek presses his cheek to the top of her head.

“Much better now,” he agrees, picking up one of the books discarded nearby.

He makes his way through several chapters, letting his mind wander aimlessly. He worries about the Mighty Nein, of course; they are, after all, his brand new responsibility. But he worries for his Shadows more, many of them on the front lines of a war Essek isn’t sure he believes in, though he would never admit it to anyone, least of all to the Shadows themselves.

Just as he nearly convinces himself to get back to work, there is a knock on the library door. Essek tenses, reaching out with his magic, and relaxes at the warm flare of recognition. Clutching at the threads of gravity again, he pulls himself up and with a flick of his wrist, he opens the door.

Nyss wears the same disguise she always wears in Rosohna; stark white hair shaved clean on one side of her head and falling in waves on the other side, red eyes flaring in half-darkness. Magic in her hands, daggers at her sides. Smile on her lips cut in half by a brand new scar.

“Hey there,” Nyss says. “Thought I’d try knocking this time. You know, the road less traveled by.”

She pulls up the sleeve of her black undershirt and presents the inner side of her wrist. The golden symbol, visible to no one except for Essek, glows briefly with warm light before fading out of sight again.

“It does make all the difference,” Essek responds, smiling slightly. “Welcome home, Nyss.”

She smells like her leather armor, like autumn wind, like northern rain. Essek briefly wishes he could rest his head on her shoulder, like he would when they were kids, and for a moment once again feel safe and warm. But that was a long time ago, and he is not a child, and neither of them is safe, and nothing is warm.

Instead, he settles on squeezing her arm briefly before tugging at the golden neck-chain hidden beneath his mantle and carefully detaching one of the pendants. Immediately, the chain weighs less heavy around his neck. Nyss takes the pendant and attaches it to the plain necklace around her neck. It glimmers with bright blue light for a moment before Nyss pushes it beneath her shirt.

“It’s good to be back,” she says, completing the little ceremony.

Essek smiles, gesturing for her to follow as he leaves the library and moves to the kitchen. The silence in the corridor remains undisturbed; Nyss’ footsteps are inaudible even to a trained ear, and Essek, of course, has no footsteps at all. Ghostlike, they move over the polished marble floors, across the vastness of space that speaks of wealth more clearly than any furniture ever could.

Nyss moves light on her feet, but the scar on her face troubles Essek — it must be magical, to be visible even through her disguise.

“Did you show that to the Healers yet?” he asks as they enter the kitchen.

“Not yet,” Nyss says, hopping onto the kitchen counter. “I quite like it, really. Makes me look dangerous.”

She grins, her teeth white and sharp; Essek has seen her use those very teeth to rip an attacker’s throat out, and that was before she became one of the Dynasty’s Shadows.

He smiles back. “I thought that’s what the daggers were for,” he teases.

Nyss huffs. “I’ll have you know that I use my daggers with great skill,” she says. To prove the point, she tosses one of her daggers up in the air, catches and sheathes it with her other hand, just a glimpse of deadly light in deadlier steel. “Even Lythir thinks so.”

Essek, capable of controlling all of his facial expressions even under extreme duress, makes a face.

“Oh, if _Lythir_ thinks so,” he says.

Nyss laughs.

The tin box with chocolate powder has been gathering dust for months now. Essek sets the water in the kettle boiling and locates Nyss’ forest-green mug. It would have gathered dust by now, too, had Essek not cleaned it every few days, just in case.

From the corner of his eye, he looks at Nyss again. She has stopped smiling now and is staring straight ahead in a manner Essek recognizes; he is fairly certain she is not seeing the eerily quiet, dark corridor, but something else entirely. When he offers her the mug, she accepts it with half-a-smile, tucking her hair behind her ear and revealing an array of new earrings.

Essek takes a sip of his hot chocolate, is immediately reminded that he dislikes it, and puts his mug down. He pulls himself up onto the counter by Nyss’ side and once again lets go of his hold on gravity, allowing his body to lose all of its grace. Acantha makes a quiet noise, far more emotive than Essek would ever allow himself to be, and flies over to the kitchen counter, perching next to Nyss and brushing the side of her hand with one fluffy wing.

“You can tell me,” Essek says quietly. “I know I was the one who sent you there.” _And the one who’ll one day send you to your death_. “But you can tell me.”

Nyss smiles, nudging her shoulder against his. “I know,” she says. “It’s just. Fucked up.” Acantha hops cautiously onto her knee and Nyss reaches out, awkward with her gentleness the way she never is with her weapons as she brushes her fingers along Acantha’s wings. “The Assembly… scares me sometimes,” she says after a moment. “They’re just sending kids out there these days. With barely any training. Just raw talent and some tricks.”

Essek hums. “So I’ve heard,” he says carefully.

“I don’t get it,” Nyss says, looking around the room, though clearly still not quite seeing it. “They’re trained, sure, but they’re _kids_. If they run into one of us, they’re _dead_.”

Essek looks at her. “And you did run into one of them,” he says quietly.

“Oh, I’ve run into a few,” Nyss says, detached. She tangles her fingers together, untangles them. “It was actually the youngest one that gave me this scar. He was sixteen years old, if that.”

Essek doesn’t say anything. There is nothing to be said.

“I’ve killed him,” Nyss says, as Essek knew she would say. “All of them. Some with my daggers. Some with your Dunamancy. Maybe I didn’t have to. I don’t know if I had to.” She huffs a breath through her nose and just like that, her emotions settle again, like the surface of a lake on a windy day, with horrible things prowling underneath. “It’s just. I’m just tired at times, you know?”

Essek lets himself lean against her shoulder, just for a little while, as she sighs and brings the mug to her lips again. Inexplicably, he thinks of the Mighty Nein, the bright fairy tale with so much darkness underneath. And he thinks of Nyss’ daggers, tainted red with too much blood. And he thinks of his own hands, so deceptively clean.

“Yes,” he says. “I know.”

*

The house has changed since the Mighty Nein moved in. It’s brighter now; filled with candles and enchanted lights. It’s fuller, too, colorful belongings and trinkets scattered everywhere, empty mugs littering the counters, blankets thrown over couches and chairs. It’s warm, but it has always been warm, even right after Faye passed away and the corridors grew shockingly empty and still.

_Welcome home, darling,_ Faye would always say, and even from her lonely room upstairs, she would be able to tug the door open for him with the power of her Dunamancy and lift his wheelchair right off the ground.

_Welcome home, darling,_ she would say, and the house would be inviting and it would be bright, time stretching languidly whenever he visited, letting him stay for hours and hours while losing mere minutes, letting him believe, just for a moment, that life could be kind, that it could be warm.

_Welcome home, darling,_ Faye would say — and she will never, ever say it again.

Essek doesn’t feel her presence here. He doesn’t feel her presence anywhere. She left, as she had always intended to do, once and for all, and no matter how long Essek lives, he will never, ever see her again.

But the house, well — the house is still warm.

And now it’s also bright, and noisy, and filled to the brim. And Faye would have liked that, most likely. She would have liked the Mighty Nein, with all of their darkness and all of their light. She was fond of all things strange and unusual, all things broken and imperfect, all things fragile and mortal.

“Your thoughts are somewhere else,” Caleb says quietly, drawing Essek’s attention away from the sound of laughter he can no longer hear and from the sense of genuine welcome he no longer feels.

“Yes,” Essek says, clearing his throat and looking back down at his spell book without really seeing it. He should focus; he has, after all, promised Caleb to help him practice the _Resonant Echo_ spell, now that he has the necessary components, before the Mighty Nein ventures out of Xhorhas again in their pursuit of Obann. “I apologize.”

Caleb nods, repeating the motions of the spell. Nothing happens, _again_. Either the spell is too difficult, or — far more likely — Caleb is messing it up on purpose.

“Focus,” Essek says, cooler than he usually would. He should be playing Caleb’s game, for the Dynasty’s sake if nothing else, but — but he is tired, at times, and then he wishes for stupid things. “I do have other matters to attend to.”

Caleb tenses, then forces himself to relax. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s noticeable.

“I’m trying,” he says quietly.

Essek sighs, but eventually does exactly what Caleb has clearly intended for him to do all along — he catches Caleb’s hand to guide him through the somatic aspects of the spell. Caleb’s pulse is racing beneath Essek’s fingers and his skin is warm to touch and his hand moves easily with Essek’s — but his gaze is as guarded and calculating as ever, as if all he ever sees is a chessboard with himself as the one remaining piece.

“You’re not trying _at all_ ,” Essek snaps.

Caleb looks up, a flare of annoyance in bright blue eyes.

And the flower vase on the table _explodes_.

Essek snaps his fingers in a purely instinctive response, bending time just enough to counteract the spell. He realizes mere seconds too late that he did it while still holding Caleb’s wrist.

_Fuck_.

He should have let the small explosion happen; getting the water and flowers out of their books would be an inconvenience, but not a major one. This, however, complicates the matters.

Essek pulls his hand back, focusing to bend time again in a move that would have earned him a _stern_ reprimand from Faye, but Caleb, a quick thinker as always, catches his hand just before he can cast, and holds it down. Essek halfheartedly tries pulling away, aware that it’s already too late. He sniffs and discovers that he has a nosebleed. He really shouldn’t have tried to cast the spell twice.

Caleb is still holding down Essek’s hand and he is staring at Essek like he has never seen him before.

“Did you just,” he says, a strange quality to his voice, “did you just _bend time_?”

Essek finally pulls his hand back. He presses the sleeve of his shirt to his nose and he frowns, snapping his spell book shut with a glance and then sending it to its pocket dimension with a flick of his wrist, ignoring the way the spells tug at his power like a grappling hook would tug at an open wound.

“We’re done for today,” he says, pushing to his feet, steadying himself with one hand on the table as the world briefly loses focus.

Gravity still bends to accommodate him, but the levitation spell is more resistant, requires more effort, doesn’t fade to the back of his mind as it usually would.

“You’re bleeding,” Caleb observes and reaches absently to touch him.

Essek flinches, badly. Caleb blinks at him, shocked into stillness as Essek moves farther way, out of melee if not out of casting range, and waves the blood away with yet another spell, which is counterproductive at best. He desperately wants to go home.

But, of course, he _is_ home.

And he can never go home again.

Without a word, he turns around, making his way out of the library. The rest of the Mighty Nein is, blessedly, nowhere to be seen, as Jester lost all interest in studying with them, and the rest had no interest in it in the first place.

“Maybe you should rest for a moment?” Caleb asks, following him to the door just as Essek waves it open. He sounds uncertain, hesitant, concerned. Some of it might even be real.

“No, thank you,” Essek says, inhaling the cool morning air and letting it soothe the nausea rolling in his stomach. He has work to do. There will be time for that — well, there won’t be.

“Then let me walk you to the Lucid Bastion, at least,” Caleb insists.

Essek grits his teeth against an impending headache. He wishes he could teleport away, but that would make the rest of his day truly unbearable.

“If you wish,” he mutters, trying and failing to feign indifference as he straightens his mantle and runs an impatient hand through his hair.

Caleb immediately grabs his coat.

He keeps looking around the city with the exact same curiosity he displayed when Essek led them through these streets for the first time. His obvious perceptiveness makes Essek uneasy; the Mighty Nein’s allegiance is still at best unclear to him. Nonetheless, most of the information they can glean by living in the city is easily accessible to the other imperial spies stationed in Rosohna.

Except, perhaps, for the fact that the Dynasty is capable of bending time.

Essek exhales through his nose, waving the blood away once again. He has been _careless_. He has grown too comfortable, too self-assured, too arrogant. He has made a mistake, the very same mistake Caleb has been hoping for. He has lost at a game he thought he was above playing.

“You _really_ didn’t want me to know you could do that,” Caleb says, breaking the silence. “Why?”

“Does it matter?” Essek asks, impatient. “I’ve made a mistake. You’ve caught it. Well done. Nothing to be done about it now.”

Caleb slants him a look. “You could deny it.”

Essek huffs. “I could,” he says, “but we both know you’re far too clever for that.”

Caleb falls silent for a long moment, pushing his hands into the pockets of his coat and staring down at the marble floor as they enter the Lucid Bastion. He tenses around the guards and then relaxes again when they are alone.

“The way I see it,” he says at length, careful with his words, “the Mighty Nein doesn’t need to know about this.”

Essek doesn’t respond, pretending to busy himself with the protective spells on the door of his office.

“They don’t much care about Dunamancy,” Caleb continues, clearly trying to convince Essek as much as he is trying to convince himself. “It’s not relevant.”

“I see,” Essek says, finally opening the door with an impatient spell that sends another jolt of pain through his temples. He lets Caleb inside and closes the door behind them by hand. “And in return?”

Caleb doesn’t answer immediately, taking in the office. It’s an impressive space, objectively speaking; with an old wooden desk as the centerpiece and stained windows as the background. Nightlights flicker in the distance, bringing threads of color to the glass. From the perch by the window, Acantha offers a single hoot of greeting. Caleb blinks at her, seemingly perplexed, but doesn’t comment.

Instead he says, “An answer to one question.”

Essek considers the offer. On the one hand, he really shouldn’t divulge any more information about the manipulation of time and he has no guarantee that Caleb will, indeed, keep his word. On the other hand, no matter how much information Caleb can glean from the answer, Essek is fairly certain he’ll be able to learn more from the question. He has not missed the way Caleb’s interest gravitated to the time-related aspects of Dunamancy. A mercenary, apparently not so interested in using the infinite power of gravity, opting instead to learn about the intricate and volatile mechanics of manipulating time and fate. Essek has not become the Shadowhand by overlooking such glaring inconsistencies.

“Very well,” he says at length. “Proceed.”

There is a pause as Caleb looks around the office again. Then he pushes his hands into the pockets of his coat and, looking at Acantha, he says, “How far back can you bend time?”

_Reaching far back then, are we_ , Essek thinks, though strangely, obtaining the potentially valuable information doesn’t feel particularly satisfying. He thinks about the way Caleb kept messing up the _Resonant Echo_ spell, and it occurs to him that perhaps there was another reason he couldn’t quite get it right.

_Sometimes, darling, if we want something too badly, we fear failure so much we don’t let ourselves try._

“I don’t know,” Essek answers, more truthfully than he initially intended, leaning against the doorframe to face Caleb, even though it would be smarter to circle the desk and use it as a barrier and a signifier of power. “But I do know that even reaching just a few seconds back requires a lot of strength. Manipulating time is the most volatile magic there is, Caleb. I would never dare reach more than a few seconds back into the past, and even doing that could, under some circumstances, cause me great harm.”

Caleb frowns, folding his arms around himself in a strangely protective manner. “But you just used it like it was nothing.”

“Yes,” Essek admits uncomfortably. “And that was _extremely_ reckless of me. And you have seen the consequences, too. Dunamancy feels… instinctive to me. It’s easy to forget myself, sometimes.”

“Oh,” Caleb says softly.

Essek suddenly remembers watching him read, one hand palm-up on the armrest of his chair, ghosts of flames dancing on his fingertips. The way he uses his limited knowledge of Dunamancy is remarkable, but he never seems quite as at ease as he does when wielding his preferred element.

“Yes, well,” Essek says, suddenly uneasy with both the conversation, and the memory. He straightens, crosses his arms. “I shall endeavor to be more careful in the future.”

“Have you heard of anyone able to reach back farther?” Caleb presses, now looking up at Essek directly, in a way he very rarely does.

Essek tuts. “You really are pushing your luck here, Caleb.”

Caleb doesn’t say anything. If he is still playing that game of his, it’s a much better attempt than the previous ones; there seems to be genuine desperation in his eyes. Essek wishes it didn’t remind him of anything.

“You should be more careful with your secrets,” he says; the absolute last thing he should be saying. “Sometimes questions reveal more than answers possibly could.”

Caleb rubs at his forearms, focusing his gaze on Acantha again as he sidesteps Essek’s comment entirely and prompts, “Well?”

Essek looks at him for a long moment, considering the tense line of his shoulders, the way he keeps rubbing at the scars on his forearms, the way he holds himself perfectly still even though he quite obviously wants to run out of the room.

“Very well,” Essek yields, on pure instinct and nothing else. “My mentor claimed she once managed to reach a few minutes back, but the damage it caused to her magic nearly killed her that day. That’s the farthest anyone was able to reach in recorded history.”

“A few minutes,” Caleb repeats, his expression carefully blank, but not nearly blank enough to fool Essek.

He has clearly hoped for far, far more than that. Essek would be shocked, hadn’t he expected something exactly like that. He looks at Caleb, the unhappy twist of his lips, the shadows beneath his eyes, the tiredness in his every move, every word. Somewhere deep beneath his professional curiosity, there is a tug in the vicinity of Essek’s heart.

“I’m afraid so,” he says quietly.

“I don’t suppose you’re willing to tell me anything more about time-related magic, are you?” Caleb says, staring fixedly at the window now, holding himself perfectly still. “About other spells?”

“No,” Essek says. “I’m not.”

Caleb’s expression remains blank. His fingers keep tugging at the edges of his sleeves and his teeth keep worrying his lip. Essek has never seen him look so lost. It reminds him… well, it reminds him of a great many things.

“…yet,” he adds, against his better judgement, against all logic, and quite possibly against direct orders.

Caleb’s gaze snaps back to Essek’s eyes. “Yet?”

“Yet,” Essek confirms, with certainty he doesn’t feel at all. It might, just as well, be a trap. He might, just as well, be falling for the exact same game he so badly didn’t want to play. “Though I cannot promise I know of a spell that would offer the results you seek.”

“That’s okay,” Caleb says quickly. “As long as there is a path to follow. Any path to follow at all.”

And isn’t that a familiar sentiment.

“Very well,” Essek says, swallowing past the anxiety bubbling in his gut. He hopes he is not making a grave mistake here. He hopes his own motivations are clear. “Now, I really must return to my duties.”

“ _Ja,_ I know,” Caleb says, though he still doesn’t step away. “I mean, of course. I’ll go.”

He doesn’t go, though. Instead he keeps looking at Essek, with that strange mix of hope and desperation, and for a moment, Essek wishes things could be different. He wishes there was nothing more to this conversation than this; he wishes he could simply share his knowledge like knowledge had once been shared with him. He wishes he could see that desperation molded into power, molded into skill. He wishes he could see that hope forged into reality. He wishes he could watch the magic he knows so intimately flourish as it always flourishes once a new spellcaster bends it to their will.

He wishes he could look in these bright blue eyes and not be reminded of imperial skies.

He cannot, though. The ice he is treading is getting quite thin. He is the Shadowhand to the Bright Queen. And Caleb is a Scourger, by training if not by allegiance. It’s a game, as most things in Essek’s life are, and it would be foolish to see it as anything other than that.

He straightens and pulls away.

“Have a good day, Caleb,” he says, perhaps a touch brusquely, and turns to his desk.

He does have duties to attend to, as evident by the pile of documents and reports on his desk, hidden for now beneath a neat illusion. He isn’t running — and even if he were, it would be but a strategic retreat.

A frown passes through Caleb’s face before his expression clears again. Dutifully, he reaches for the door handle, but he pauses one more time to look at Essek.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he says, once more taking in the room, “what is it that you do, exactly?”

Essek looks up from his desk. “Good question,” he says. “If a delayed one.” He waves his hand over the desk and the illusion fades. The documents are still folded, of course, their contents obscured from sight. “I’m the Shadowhand to the Bright Queen, Caleb. Your people, I believe, would call me the Royal Master of Spies.”

Caleb sucks in a breath at that, though he does an admirable job of appearing unaffected.

“Oh,” he says, and Essek watches him patiently for a moment as he seems to reevaluate his strategy in the light of that new information. _Good_ , Essek thinks. _Enough with the games, now._

“Indeed,” he says, folding himself in the chair behind his desk. He cracks the seal on the first report he intends to read. “Light be with you, Caleb. Do close the door on your way out.”

*

It’s quiet in the house.

Nyss is playing with one of her daggers, tossing it up in the air and then catching it with another hand, and while Essek trusts her skill completely, he still keeps his magic at the ready as the blade flies up in the air, nearly all the way to the ceiling, and drops back securely to Nyss’ hand.

Nyss’ eyes are, of course, firmly closed.

Just as Essek flips another page of his book, Nyss doesn’t reach out to catch the dagger. Essek lifts a hand to stop it midair, bare inches from Nyss’ stomach, only to discover that Nyss’ right hand is raised as well, her magic, rather than Essek’s own, keeping the dagger in the air. She cracks one eye open and smiles at him and he offers an apologetic smile in return. He should, of course, never have doubted her.

Just as he refocuses on his book again, there is a knock on the door.

Nyss opens her eyes and sits up straight.

“It’s okay,” Essek says, closing the book. “I’ll be right back.”

He sighs, forcing himself to leave the warm comfort of the room and move to the empty hallway, all the way to the door. At this distance, he can already tell who exactly is waiting outside.

The knocks repeats itself, quieter this time.

Essek sighs again, squares his shoulders, and waves the door open.

Caleb is leaning against the side of the door, as straight-out-of-battle as a person can possibly be. Essek’s training instantly kicks in, his surprise pushed out of the way.

“Are you injured?” he asks, stepping closer to assess the matter himself.

His Shadows have shown up at his doorsteps far more banged-up than this, but clothes can be deceptive, and besides, he knows little of Caleb’s endurance.

Caleb blinks up at him. “What?” he says. “Um, oh, this, _nein_ , this is nothing.”

“May I?” Essek asks, reaching out for his wrist, but Caleb flinches away in a panicked move that tells Essek more than he really wanted to know.

“It’s a simple assessment spell,” Essek clarifies. He should have explained before reaching out in the first place. He won’t make that mistake again. “It will inform me only of major injuries and wounds, nothing else.”

Caleb looks up at him sharply, but whatever he sees in Essek’s face, it clearly calms him somewhat, as he offers a jerky nod, extending his hand. Essek presses two fingers to the inner side of his wrist, touching as little as he can while still maintaining enough contact to cast the spell.

He’s not a healer by any means; on the contrary, healing magic feels counterintuitive to him, but he has taught himself this spell for situations exactly like this, even though learning it took a truly ridiculous amount of his time and frustrated him to no end. It did save his Shadows’ lives on some occasions, though, and for that he is grateful.

Battered and exhausted as he seems, apparently Caleb is alright. He is bruised and shaken, but his life is not in any danger.

“All done,” Essek says quietly, withdrawing his hand. “Your healers came through.”

Caleb nods again, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Of course they have,” he says, a touch of defensiveness in his voice. “They’re very skilled spellcasters.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Essek says. “Speaking of which, where are your friends, Caleb?”

Caleb’s shoulders sag just a little. “Back at Xhorhaus,” he says. “Resting, I presume.”

_Then why are you here?_ Essek wants to ask, but he doesn’t — there will be time for that later.

“Alright,” he says instead. “Come in, then.”

Caleb follows him inside without a word, rubbing restlessly at his forearms, his gaze darting around the corridor. Essek lets the candles flare a bit brighter and chase the long shadows back beneath the ornate cupboards and behind the intricate frames of abstract paintings.

He is unsurprised to discover Nyss watching them from the entrance to the living room, her head tilted to the side, Acantha perched on her shoulder. She is completely silent for a moment and then brings an apple to her lips and takes a loud bite.

Caleb flinches.

“It’s alright,” Essek says, raising his hands in placation and slanting a look at Nyss. “She’s my friend.”

“A pleasure to finally meet you,” Nyss says lightly, without moving from her spot in the entryway.

“Likewise,” Caleb replies politely, though he is still holding himself far more rigidly than he did just moments ago.

Essek sighs. In Undercommon, he says to Nyss, “I apologize, but I need to take care of this. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You shouldn’t just assume he doesn’t speak Undercommon,” Nyss replies. Her gaze follows without a pause to Caleb’s forearms, the way he is still unconsciously rubbing at them while pretending not to listen to the conversation. “He is the Scourger, isn’t he.”

“It’s… complicated,” Essek says.

Nyss hums. “Curiouser and curiouser. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow,” Essek agrees.

She takes another bite of the apple and steps closer to Essek, pressing her shoulder to his so that Acantha can hop over. Then she banishes the apple with a flick of her hand and leaves without making another noise, waving the door open with one spell and closing it behind herself with another.

Acantha hoots quietly in the silence that follows, her claws kneading briefly at Essek’s shoulder as he pauses to collect himself and turns back to Caleb.

“Alright,” he says. “Please, follow me.”

Caleb offers a nod and does follow Essek, his gaze skittering all around the corridor, taking in every detail. Essek doesn’t mind; the décor is designed precisely to betray absolutely nothing at all. Expensive frames around expensive paintings, ornate candles in ornate candelabras. High ceilings, polished floors.

All of it speaks of obscene wealth and absolutely nothing else.

Essek leads Caleb to the washroom by one of the guest rooms and waves the door open.

Caleb stops and raises an eyebrow in question.

Essek shrugs. “You don’t look well,” he says. “At least wash the blood off your hands. You will find clean clothes inside as well, should you wish to change. Acantha will help you find me when you are done.”

With a hoot, Acantha pushes off his shoulder and perches on the frame of the single painting in the corridor. Caleb’s gaze follows her, but his expression remains blank.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

Essek nods, already turning around. Acantha will make sure both that Caleb is alright and that he doesn’t explore the rest of the house instead of returning to Essek.

He makes his way back to the kitchen and sets about preparing a simple meal. He goes through the motions absentmindedly, having done this with nearly all of his Shadows at one point or another.

He uses one of Faye’s recipes, as he usually does. He has learned them all by heart a long time ago, long before he realized that the recipes weren’t actually Faye’s at all. She never seemed to cook, anyway, though she always had a cup of tea waiting for him on the kitchen counter, in his assigned mug, perfectly warm. He never would have found out about the recipes at all, hadn’t he insisted to pay Faye back for tutoring him in Dunamancy.

_You don’t like having debts, do you, darling?_

It took him a while to realize just how foreign the cuisine was. It took him longer still to realize that the recipes must have belonged to Faye’s wife. Still, he never was a picky child, and making meals was nice when one didn’t need to worry about the ingredients. And when you truly are hungry, food only sometimes tastes of guilt.

Just as he sets a cup of tea and a plate on the table, there are quiet footsteps in the corridor — courtesy of the marble floors that carry sound particularly well — and Caleb steps into the room. Acantha hoots and flies over to Essek’s shoulder, settling comfortably while dutifully keeping her unblinking gaze on Caleb.

Caleb looks better, despite still wearing his own clothes; at least most of the blood is gone now. He looks tired, though, the paleness of his skin even more pronounced.

Essek gestures to the table. “Please, take a seat,” he says. “Have something to eat.”

“I…” Caleb says, but then — predictably — his training kicks in. “Thank you.”

He does sit down and Essek takes a seat as well. He has made a cup of tea for himself, too, but he pushes it away as he summons his spell book and begins to work on one of the new spells of his design. He makes sure to keep the design out of Caleb’s sight, but he focuses on his work entirely, paying Caleb no mind, aware now that he dislikes being watched.

“It’s… very good,” Caleb says after a long moment, setting down his spoon. “But it tastes…”

“Imperial,” Essek supplies, without looking up. “Yes, it would.”

Caleb frowns. “How do you know imperial recipes?”

Essek shrugs and does look up this time, meeting Caleb’s gaze. “Know your enemy, Caleb.”

Surprisingly, though, Caleb continues to stare at him. “No,” he says thoughtfully. “It’s not that.”

Essek very carefully schools his expression into something neutral. “What is it, then?”

“I don’t know,” Caleb admits, breaking eye contact again. “Just not that.”

Essek hums, but he doesn’t say anything else, returning to his work. Acantha nuzzles sleepily against his neck and he smiles automatically and presses his cheek against her head before realizing that Caleb is watching him again.

Essek really should keep in mind that the Mighty Nein are not his Shadows. He trusts them, as much as he trusts anyone, but he has made mistakes before.

Caleb clears his throat. “Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?” he asks.

“Are you done eating?” Essek asks in turn, putting his quill down.

“Yes, thank you,” Caleb says. “Though I still don’t understand…”

“You are not the first person to show up at my door in this state,” Essek interrupts quietly. “Do you feel any better now?”

“Um,” Caleb says, as if genuinely surprised to be asked. “Yes, I suppose. Thank you.”

“Alright,” Essek says. “Then tell me what happened.”

Caleb speaks quietly, in a strangely detached manner, describing their pursuit of Obann through the Lotusden Greenwood, the fight they couldn’t possibly win, the injuries his friends sustained, the way his own magic seemed useless in his hands, serving in the end only as the means of escape.

There are quite a few details missing from the story, causing the puzzles not to fit quite right, and Essek takes note of them, but he doesn’t comment.

When Caleb finishes his story, Essek quietly says, “I see.” He pauses. “Why did you come here, Caleb?”

Caleb does falter at that. He rubs at his forearms again. “We can’t do this on our own, Essek. We just can’t.”

Essek sighs. “Yes, I’m starting to see that. But it could wait until morning. Why are you here now?”

There is no reply, but Caleb finally meets his gaze. There is a simple certainty in his eyes, and somewhere deep, deep beneath that, there is something very, very cold. “You know exactly why I’m here.”

And, terribly, Essek does know. “I see,” he says again.

It’s easy to forget, sometimes, the depth of darkness, even if you are used to looking past all light. Caleb doesn’t move from his seat, but he doesn’t look away, either, maintaining eye contact in a way he never really does when he has any other choice.

Essek sighs. He meets Caleb’s gaze and says, “No.”

Caleb blinks at that, seemingly confused. “I thought…”

“I know exactly what you thought,” Essek interrupts, though he makes sure to keep his voice calm. “And the answer is no.”

Caleb huffs a sudden, mirthless laugh. Only now Essek truly can see it — the toll the battle really took on him. He might have washed off the blood, but the helplessness of defeat is still buried deep in his eyes. And with helplessness comes desperation. Essek has seen it before.

In the mirror, too.

“Right,” Caleb says, still with a lopsided, bitter smile. “My mistake.”

“Not really,” Essek says calmly, still watching him. Caleb blinks, seemingly even more startled by the admission than he was by the rejection. “But the answer is still the same, Caleb. At least as long as the question is.” He rises. “Come. I’ll walk you home.”

He doesn’t wait for Caleb to move, grateful for the space between them, grateful for the way his heart beats calmly in his chest. This is familiar, after all. Darkness is far more familiar than light.

Caleb follows him outside in silence, still watching him more attentively than he ever did before. For the most part, Essek doesn’t look back.

The night is warm. Clouds are rolling through the sky while the stars offer just enough light for Caleb not to stumble on the slippery pavement as he follows half-a-step behind Essek, with his hands in the pockets of his coat again and his brow furrowed in thought.

Essek glances back at him, at the defeat still etched deep into the lines of his face.

“It would have been quite impressive, had the Mighty Nein succeeded,” he says, breaking the silence, “but surely you knew that to be unlikely. I don’t hold your defeat against you. Neither should you.”

Caleb glances up and then away. “It’s not just that,” he says quietly. “Yasha is one of ours. She is our… she is _my_ friend. And I… and we can’t seem to save her.”

“You can’t save her _yet_ ,” Essek corrects patiently. “But you will. With my help, should you truly need it.”

That does cause Caleb to look up. “Why?” he asks. “If — if —”

Essek sighs again, but he is no longer truly upset; there’s just a dull ache somewhere deep inside him, where very few things can reach. Perhaps after today, even fewer things will. The cold weight, after all, only ever grows heavier. The ice only ever spreads.

“Whoever you see when you look at me,” he says as they come to a stop before Faye’s house, the drizzle now picking up in force, “I’m not them, Caleb. Give my regards to your friends. Rest. It will be alright.”

Just as he is about to step away, the door to the house slams open against the wall.

Essek whirls around at the noise, one hand raised on instinct, his training putting him in an instant between Caleb and the perceived threat.

“Where the _fuck_ have you been?!” Beauregard yells, storming down the steps.

Essek drops his hand and steps away. Caleb gives him a curious look before stepping around him and focusing on his friend.

“Beauregard,” he says, raising both hands placatingly in the air. “I’ve just —”

“Jester’s been worried _crazy_ ,” Beauregard yells right in Caleb’s face. “Cad made you three fucking cups of tea! Fjord and Nott nearly went out looking for you! What the _fuck_ is your problem?!”

“Look,” Caleb says, still staring evenly at Beauregard, even though Essek saw him react far more hostilely to far less violent displays, “I apologize. I shouldn’t have left like that, I —”

“You’re fucking right you shouldn’t have!” Beauregard says fiercely, wiping the rain off her face with the back of her hand. Her eyes are red-rimmed. “You’re barely fucking standing! What if you passed out in the ditch somewhere? How the fuck would I find you then?!”

Caleb blinks at that, apparently taken aback, and then, inexplicably, his expression softens.

“You would have found me, Beauregard,” he says. “If that had happened, you would have found me.”

Beauregard exhales sharply through her nose, though her stance loosens somewhat. “You’re fucking right I would have. Asshole.” She pauses, finally looking around. “Oh. Hey, Essek.”

“Good evening, Beauregard,” Essek replies.

“Would you, uh, would you like to come in?” Beauregard offers, awkward now that she has run out of rage. “We’ve got, um, tea.”

“So I hear,” Essek says, smiling slightly. Caleb catches his gaze and the corner of his lips twitches, just a little. Essek’s heart grows a little less heavy in response. “Thank you, but I should go home.”

“Right,” Beauregard says, frowning. “Thanks for bringing him back, I guess.”

“Of course,” Essek replies politely. “Good night.”

Before he can turn away, Caleb catches his sleeve. Essek blinks down at his hand, more startled than anything else, but Caleb misinterprets the look and instantly lets go. Beauregard has already left, stomping up the stairs and leaving the door wide open as she disappears into the house.

“I apologize,” Caleb says quietly. “It was… an error of judgement on my part.”

Essek sighs. “It’s alright, Caleb,” he says. “I’ve made many of those myself, at one point or another.”

For a moment, Caleb is quiet, looking somewhere above Essek's shoulder. Then, with obvious effort, he meets Essek's gaze.

"Essek, did I..." He trails away, clears his throat. "Are we still friends?"

Perhaps he is only making sure that Essek will keep his promise, perhaps it's still just a game — but somehow, Essek doesn't think so. 

So he says, “I’d like that."

And for the first time in a while, Caleb offers a real smile back. “So would I.”

*

The Mighty Nein is nowhere to be found.

At first, Essek doesn’t really look for them. He has other matters to handle, most importantly the investigation within the Lucid Bastion, as it becomes clearer and clearer that there is, indeed, a traitor in their midst. In comparison, the Mighty Nein no longer seems like much of a threat, and Essek trusts them enough to let them be.

The Bright Queen, however, does not.

“They are _your_ responsibility, Shadowhand,” she says, during yet another excruciating meeting.

“Yes, my Queen,” Essek says, bowing deeply.

There aren’t many people in the throne room, only the Queen’s Council in attendance, but the space might as well be crowded, with the weight of the gazes trained on the back of Essek’s neck.

“If they choose to betray us,” the Bright Queen says, “I will have you send your Shadows after them. I will _not_ forgive treason.”

“My Queen,” Essek says, “if I may, there is no proof that they indeed have betrayed us. Perhaps they simply cannot contact us at this time.”

Lythir snorts under his breath, just loud enough for Essek to hear. Essek slants him a glare. At times he wishes that Lythir has remained in Asarius, downgraded and far away, but his wishes are inconsequential. The Bright Queen chose to offer him a position equal to Essek’s own — The General of Echo Knights. One of the Royal Masters of War, second only to the High General.

“Perhaps,” the Queen allows.

“If I may, my Queen,” Lythir speaks up unexpectedly. “I believe it would be wise to react sooner rather than later. The Shadowhand had, after all, decided to share some of our most precious secrets with the imperial mercenaries. We cannot risk those secrets falling into the hands of the Empire.”

Essek opens his mouth to speak, but before he can do so, Cynthia rises from her seat, pushing the long, silver braid onto her back as she bows before the Queen, the rich scarlet of her robes glimmering in the candlelight like old wine and fresh blood.

“If I may, my Queen,” she says, her melodious voice carrying over the room just as the wave of her heavy perfume follows, “there is no reason for such childish dramatics.” She sends a look in Lythir’s direction, one eyebrow arched in contempt. “I, for one, trust Essek’s judgment completely.”

“I took a calculated risk,” Essek says, looking away from Cynthia. He turns to Lythir. “I believe that _is_ a part of my job description, General, even if it isn’t yours.”

“Gentlemen,” the Bright Queen says, “the Oracle is right, there is indeed no need for childish dramatics. Shadowhand, while I trust your judgement as well, I expect you to bring me some news, and soon. General, please remain focused on your own objectives. Thank you, you are dismissed.”

Essek offers a curt bow, already turning around to leave, but Cynthia catches up to him nonetheless, effortlessly keeping pace with him as he glides through the spacious corridors towards his office.

“I didn’t need your help,” Essek snaps.

Cynthia huffs a cold laugh and the threads of gold tangled through her braid shimmer faintly as she shakes her head. She looks so very much like Faye, and yet so dissimilar.

“Of course you did,” she says. “You are just like _her_. Blinded by your silly pet projects. Enamored with your silly pet humans. Whether you see it or not, Essek, you are treading on thin ice here.”

“I do see it,” Essek says sharply. “I don’t need your help, regardless.”

Cynthia catches his arm, with enough strength in her grip to turn him around towards her. Essek feels the brush of her telepathy against his mind and tries to step back, but she keeps him in place with ease.

“Your every single action,” she says, “reflects upon our Den. Do keep that in mind, Essek.”

“Oh, it’s _our_ Den now, is it?” Essek mocks quietly. With some effort, he focuses on the barriers around his mind, and exhales when the oppressive pressure fades away.

Cynthia hisses and lets go of his arm. “Don’t be a child,” she chides. “You carry our name. _Her_ name. You have responsibilities, now. You have a family to look after, to care for. You are a part of something. Bring it honor, for once.”

“ _Now_ I have responsibilities,” Essek echoes coolly, stepping back. “I’ve always had a family, Cynthia. I’ve always been a part of something. Perhaps not something quite as great as our Den. _Your_ Den. But I’ve been a part of something nonetheless.”

Cynthia snorts. “Of what?” she asks, stepping forward. Even with his spell keeping him afloat, she is taller than he is. “You would have been dead, hadn’t it been for her.”

It’s strange, how similar her eyes are to Faye’s, the same exact shade of violet, and yet Cynthia’s eyes are cold like precious stones while Faye’s were vibrant like magic itself. It’s strange, to be looked at with such vicious resentment, when once he had been looked at with such quiet warmth.

“Every life has meaning,” Essek says and hates how quiet his voice is, how childlike, how lost. “No matter how small.”

Cynthia’s eyes flash. “Don’t you dare throw her words at me,” she snarls. “You have no right.”

Essek swallows. “She wasn’t just my mentor, Cynthia,” he says, and he sounds imploring now, he sounds _weak_. “She was my… she was my friend.”

“She was my _sister_!” Cynthia shouts, right in Essek’s face, and for a split second, her eyes look exactly like Faye’s. Though he doesn’t intend to do it, Essek moves back — _weak, weak, weak_ — and hides his trembling hands in the folds of his mantle.

Someone clears their throat.

“Sir,” a familiar voice says, loud and clear. “A moment of your time?”

It’s Nyss. She is standing right next to them, her posture relaxed, her smile polite. Essek hasn’t seen her approach and, if her flinch is anything to go by, neither has Cynthia.

Essek gathers himself and straightens. “Of course, Shadow,” he says. “Oracle, if you’ll excuse me.”

Cynthia blinks at that, her expression settling once again. She sighs, raising one delicate hand to her head, and rubs at her temple. “Look, Essek —”

“It’s an urgent matter, sir,” Nyss interrupts and then looks to Cynthia. While her expression doesn’t change, the warmth vacates her gaze entirely. “My sincere apologies, Oracle.”

Cynthia looks back at her for a long moment, but Nyss merely stares back, either unaffected by Cynthia’s telepathic skills, or capable of shrugging the pressure off.

Cynthia sighs again and waves her hand. “Very well,” she says. “Light be with you, Shadowhand.”

“May it light your way,” Essek responds coolly.

Cynthia nods and walks away, her heels clicking softly against the polished floors, her robes swishing around her like the rustle of autumn leaves. Slowly, the corridor fills with sounds again, the conversations resuming, the curious gazes skittering away.

Essek turns to Nyss. She isn’t watching him; she has turned to admire one of the paintings on the wall, a lovely depiction of the night sky. Essek steps closer to join her and follows her gaze, only to realize that she isn’t looking at the paining at all, but at a small spider nesting in the upper corner of the frame. There is a faint smile on her lips. Essek presses his shoulder to hers, just for a moment.

“Thank you,” he says.

Nyss does look at him at that, first from the corner of her eye, and then turning towards him when he calmly meets her gaze. She folds her hands behind her back.

“Of course,” she says. “My pleasure, really.”

Essek manages a small smile. “You’ve never been very fond of her, have you?”

Nyss shrugs, bumping her shoulder against his again as they begin to travel down the corridor.

“She doesn’t make it easy to be fond of her,” she says.

“No, she doesn’t,” Essek agrees. He watches Nyss for a moment. “But something else troubles you, doesn’t it?”

Nyss doesn’t reply right away, which in itself is unusual. She tucks her hands into the pockets of her overcoat and walks by Essek’s side for a long moment before she speaks up.

“It’s Rylan,” she says at length. “Have you heard from her recently?”

“No,” Essek replies, instinctively reaching to touch the green pendant hidden beneath his mantle. “But she can handle herself. I’m sure she’s alright.”

“I… have a bad feeling,” Nyss says reluctantly, still not quite meeting Essek’s gaze. “Do you have any way of reaching her?”

Essek frowns. “She can’t be scried upon,” he says. “It’s a high priority mission. I suppose I could send a message, but she might not be able to reply. Usually, she is the one to contact us.”

“I know,” Nyss says quietly. “But I… I really think something might be wrong.”

Essek looks at her for a long moment. Nyss is not an easy person to read, has never been one, even long before her training, even back when they were both just kids in the streets of Rosohna, desperately trying to cheat fate. Still, her unnatural stillness is telling. As is the way she avoids Essek’s gaze. As is the way she says Rylan’s name, letting it curl softly around her tongue, thoughtful and warm, like it means more than it should.

_Oh._

“Nyss…”

She meets his gaze and to her credit, she doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I know,” she mutters.

“Even if it weren’t for what you do,” Essek says softly, “surely you must know that Rylan —”

“I _know_ , alright?” Nyss snaps. “I’m not… This isn’t… I _know_ , Essek. This has nothing to do with it. I’m your second in command. Rylan is one of your Shadows. She hasn’t checked in for a while. That’s all.”

“Okay,” Essek says gently. “I’ll send her a message.”

Nyss glares at him. “Don’t… don’t be like that,” she says. “Don’t be _kind_.”

“I’m not being anything,” Essek says.

“Like hell you aren’t,” Nyss says. She huffs. “You could also talk to your imperial kids, you know.”

Essek rolls his eyes. “They are not my children.”

“Might as well be,” Nyss says, her smile returning. “What are they, two decades old?”

“They are adults,” Essek says long-sufferingly, though he knows that Nyss is only teasing him. The script is easy to follow, though, and it brings a small smile to his face. “Fairly capable, too. Sometimes.”

“Uh-huh.”

“They _are_ ,” Essek says as they step onto the balcony above one of the gardens. The stars shine brightly in the sky, their light reflecting in the leaves of the trees, in the petals of the flowers, in the blades of grass. “They could be of use to us.”

Nyss slants him a look. “You like them, don’t you?”

“I have no personal feelings for them,” Essek replies automatically, leaning back against the railing and allowing his hold on gravity to loosen somewhat as he stares up at the windows of the Bastion.

“You’re not as good a liar as you think you are,” Nyss says, watching him from the corner of her eye as she turns to face the gardens. “Just be careful, yeah?”

Essek snorts. “I’m the Shadowhand, Nyss. They are not a threat to me.”

“Oh, Essek,” Nyss sighs. “Perhaps not the way you think, but they _are_ a threat to you.”

Essek glances at her sharply, but then he sighs. “I know how it may look. But there has never been anything I couldn’t walk away from, Nyss. And there never will be.”

“I know you believe that,” Nyss says. “But I don’t.”

“Agree to disagree, then,” Essek says, closing his eyes and listening to the hum of the wind in the leaves, to the rush of blood in his veins, to the familiar beating of Nyss’ heart. “I’ll be fine. I always am.”

“That you are,” Nyss says, but inexplicably, she sounds sad.

*

The last glimpses of sunlight dance in the waves as Ghost sways lightly, nestled against the board of the large imperial vessel.

The ship the Empire sent to the talks is imposing and sturdy, lined with golden ornaments, its name — King’s Crown — displayed proudly on both sides. Ghost is much smaller and much less intimidating in comparison, but it’s sleek and light, capable of cutting through waves at an unmatchable speed. It’s pretty, too, made of grey wood, with curled, silver letters spelling out its name.

Essek shifts in the shadows of the cabin’s entrance, just out of the sunlight, and waits calmly for the sun to sink beneath the waves and for the talks to resume. So far, there has been no progress, and in truth, Essek no longer expects any. The Beacon has been presented, but it hasn’t been returned, and Essek doubts it ever will be. At this point he just waits, for whatever he knows is about to happen. This is a trap, naturally, but sometimes stepping into a hunter’s trap can offer quite a lot of insight into the hunter. And Essek needs all the insight he can get.

There is a light creak of footsteps behind him and Essek smiles to himself as he continues to watch the horizon. He recognizes the footsteps and the cadence of breathing immediately.

“ _Hallo_ ,” Caleb says quietly.

It has, again, been quite a while since Essek last saw the Mighty Nein. After managing to schedule the peace talks, they wandered off again, to handle the myriad of their own tasks across Xhorhas and the Empire. This time, though, they kept in touch; Jester sent him messages every few days and sometimes, though rarely, Essek would send a message to her in return. He could, theoretically, speak to any member of the Mighty Nein this way, but it felt safe to reach out to the person most often reaching out to him.

And so he hasn’t spoken to Caleb in weeks.

“Hello,” Essek replies, shifting to face him, minding the sharp line of sunlight creeping ever-closer as the sun drifts towards the horizon.

Caleb looks weary, but his eyes are bright. From Jester’s messages, Essek knows that in between their personal quests, they have focused on gaining more information about the Chained Oblivion, trying to dismantle the cult that seems to have spread over the entire continent.

“So what do you think?” Caleb asks, leaning against the other side of the entrance, which leaves little space between them. He doesn’t seem to mind the sunlight, and in truth, Essek doesn’t mind it all that much either when it plays in Caleb’s hair like that.

“I haven’t yet decided what to think,” Essek replies. “Their emissaries seem honest enough. But this is a trap, of that I am quite certain.”

Caleb sighs. “That’s what I feared you might say.” He rubs at his forearms, looking away from Essek and towards the King’s Crown. “I have really hoped…” He laughs a little. “Foolish, of course.”

“It’s not,” Essek responds quietly. “We wouldn’t be much of anything without hope.”

Slowly, Caleb’s gaze drifts back to Essek. Here, where there always is so much light, Caleb’s eyes are unearthly blue, far more than either the sea or the sky. Essek blinks, briefly mesmerized, until he feels a tug on his sleeve and startles out of his reverie.

“Mind the sun, man,” Beauregard says, tugging Essek away from the light that started creeping up his shoulder with him none the wiser.

Then she pushes between them — has there really been so little space? — sending Caleb a grin that he returns with a murderous look if Essek ever saw one. Then she continues onto the deck to join Yasha and Jester on the starboard.

Caleb clears his throat. “So what are we going to do? About the trap?”

“Nothing,” Essek says with a shrug. “We wait, for now. I want to know what it is they’re after.”

Caleb hesitates. “I’m not… questioning you. But. Isn’t that risky?”

His gaze moves immediately to his friends, and that’s not difficult to read at all.

“I won’t let anything happen to them,” Essek says quietly. “Or to you.”

Caleb frowns. “That’s not exactly —”

Someone clears their throat. “Sir, a moment of your time?”

It’s Mervin, one of the Shadows Essek brought to the ship and, coincidentally, one of the best spellcasters in their ranks, except perhaps for Rylan. The serious expression on his face has Essek instantly on alert.

“Of course,” he says. “Excuse me, Caleb.”

Mervin gestures quietly to the afterdeck and leads Essek there, clearing his throat until the crewmen all vacate that part of the deck. Then he leans against the railing and looks at Essek.

“There is a gap,” he says. “Directly ahead of the bow of our ship.”

There are anti-teleportation spells around them — one of the few defense measures both sides have agreed on. The spells have been placed by the Archmages from the Menagerie Coast, so that neither side could easily dispel them.

Essek turns around and leans back against the railing to look to the bow of the ship. It’s a testament to Mervin’s skill that he managed to find the gap; it takes Essek a while to locate it, even though he knows where to look.

“It’s a tear,” Essek says. “Someone ripped the wards open.”

“Yeah,” Mervin says. “Whatever’s coming, I’d wager that’s where it’s coming from.”

“Vollstreckers, I imagine,” Essek says. “You and Annika might have to handle them, if it comes to that.”

“Of course,” Mervin says. “But what could they even be after? You?”

Essek snorts. “That I’d like to see,” he says, shaking his head. “I suppose we'll find out, won't we? Well done, Mervin. Keep an eye on this. We might make it home for dinner, after all.”

“Good,” Mervin replies, turning back to the sea. “I fucking hate sailing.”

Essek laughs.

It would be too obvious to go directly to Caleb to warn him, so Essek waits patiently until the entirety of the Mighty Nein gravitates to the starboard, and then he wanders over to join them. He catches Caleb’s sleeve, prompting him to stay back.

“We are going to be attacked,” he says, leaning into Caleb’s side. “I don’t know when, exactly, or how, but there is a tear in the anti-teleportation wards, by the bow of the ship.”

He lets go of Caleb’s sleeve, but Caleb catches his wrist instead. “Can’t we just strengthen the wards?”

“Whoever did this can most likely do it again,” Essek replies, hyperaware of the warmth of Caleb’s fingers on his skin. “I won’t waste my power like that. Besides, I want to know what they want. There is no easier way to find out.”

Caleb hesitates for a moment and his thumb, perhaps unconsciously, swipes lightly against the inner side of Essek’s wrist before he lets go. He says, “Okay.”

For the most part, the talks are excruciatingly boring. Essek cares about them even less now that he knows nothing will come out of them. He looks to the other ship and to the only imperial Archmage present — Martinet Ludinus Da'leth. He is not participating in the talks, either, stationed on the King’s Crown and observing their surroundings with carefully maintained disinterest. When he catches Essek’s gaze, he offers a perfunctory nod. Essek nods back.

And then —

And then the wards fall all at once.

Essek whirls around, just in time to see a rift form in the sky, where the gap in the wards used to be. It crackles wildly with power and light.

Essek has seen interdimensional rifts before. He has not expected to see one here.

For a moment, the rift is just a line in the sky, a lighting suspended midair. And then it flashes bright with a horrid sound of torn fabric and a single claw, the length of Essek’s arm, pushes through and digs deep into the very matter of the universe.

And then the thing on the other side begins to _push_.

Da'leth notices the threat just as Essek does, a good few second before everyone else rushes to their feet as the deck sways suddenly beneath them. Da’leth is already moving, rushing to gather his people together. In seconds at best, he will be in Rexxentrum, and with quite a story to tell. Essek can hear it already in the words Da'leth is shouting to the imperial emissaries as he gathers them together.

Trap. Treachery. _War_.

“ _Mervin_ ,” Essek snaps, reaching out with his Sending spell, “ _get our emissaries out of here. Send Annika to me.”_

He keeps his gaze on the rift. They have seconds, at most. And Da'leth is already gone. Essek’s mind is racing as he watches the rift, transfixed by the sight of another claw pushing through and digging into the other side of the rift to help pry it wide open.

“It’s not the Empire doing this,” Caleb says, rushing to Essek’s side and catching his elbow, as if to stop him from moving, even though Essek is completely still. “You have to listen to me, Essek, it’s not —”

“I know,” Essek interrupts, eerily calm as he watches the creature push and push, the claws digging deeper into the very fabric of the material plane. One gigantic arm reaches through the rift, just far enough to smash against the waves and send Ghost crashing wildly against the King’s Crown.

“And we can handle this, we’ve done this before,” Beauregard interjects. “Just let us —”

“I know how to close these!” Jester says. “We just need —”

“Please, Essek,” Caleb is saying, “we can still fix this, we can still make this work —”

“No,” Essek says, feeling calmer by the minute. His thoughts crystallize. His mind is clear. “You have to go to Rexxentrum. Right now.”

“ _What?!_ ”

“Look, Essek, no offence, but that’s _crazy_ —”

“We can’t just leave a rift in the middle of the sea! There are _dolphins_!”

“It’s not the Empire doing this,” Essek interrupts again, “and so they’ll think it was us. If you don’t go, if you don’t tell your story before Da'leth does, tomorrow we’ll once again be at war.”

“ _Oh_.”

“Well, okay, but —”

“Do you not _see_ the hell monster?!”

“I’ll handle that part,” Essek says. He looks to Caleb, who is just staring at Essek as his friends do most of the yelling and arguing. “Go now. Please.”

Caleb looks around helplessly. “Essek —”

“Please,” Essek interrupts again, aware that this argument is already taking too long, that he has to focus now or he will not be able to stop whatever is coming. “Trust me.”

Caleb closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them and meets Essek’s gaze. He says, “ _Ja_ , okay.”

“ _What?!_ ”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake —”

“Caleb, we can’t just —”

“We’re leaving,” Caleb interrupts, holding Essek’s gaze for a moment longer before he drops to one knee and begins drawing on the deck.

It’s strangely difficult to look away from him and to turn away from the entirety of the Mighty Nein, still clustered and frantic around him, but that’s what Essek has to do, so that’s what he does.

Annika is already up on the railing, her boots balanced precariously on the slippery edge as she pulls the string of her bow, aims, and sends an arrow flying through the air. It sinks deep into the creature’s arm as it manages to push one of its heads through the rift. There is a horrid screech and then the creature smiles with a mouthful of sharp teeth and blinks all at once with an array of black eyes.

Essek rests one hand on the railing to support himself, and then reaches out with the other and closes his eyes. He breathes in, breathes out, gathers his magic, finds the threads of gravity still holding the creature back, tethering it to its plane of existence — and then he _pulls_.

The creature is strong. Far stronger than most opponents Essek has faced in his life. It’s feral, too, incapable of anything but destruction. Instead of yielding against the pull of gravity, it only pushes forward harder, with no survival instinct whatsoever.

Bit by bit, the world falls away. First the roar of the storm on the other side of the rift. Then the roar of the waves. Then the roar of the wind. Then the rhythmical _swish,_ pause _, swish_ of Annika's arrows. Finally, the quiet brush of chalk against the wooden deck. And then Essek only hears his own heartbeat, blood rushing through his veins, air rushing through his lungs.

His levitation spell falters, just as he knew it would. He locks his elbow and his knees against the railing and pulls harder still and — finally — there is _progress_.

Essek opens his eyes, keeping one hand outstretched, and has to blink against the salt of sea water as the creature trashes and claws wildly at the waves, trying to keep its hold on the material plane as Essek pulls it back, back, _back_.

Annika sends another arrow flying through the air, somehow still keeping her balance even though the ship is now dancing wildly on the waves, crashing time and time again against the now-abandoned King’s Crown. Annika’s arrow hits one of the creature’s eyes, and it sinks deep as oily blood stains the water.

Essek groans around the horrible drain the spell puts on his power. He wishes, desperately, that Rylan were here. Nearly as desperately, he wishes for the Mighty Nein.

With the final push, he manages to break the hold the creature had on the material plane, and he locks his knees against the side of the railing as he raises his other hand to close the rift, while his magic protests in mindless agony.

Even when his eyes fall closed, he can see the rift clearly, a tear ripped in reality, shimmering with vicious light, crackling like a lightning suspended in space and time, roaring with something akin to laughter.

_“Sometimes, darling,” Faye said, “if we want something too badly, we fear failure so much we don’t let ourselves try.”_

_“I am trying,” Essek snapped back petulantly, hands curled so tight on the handles of his wheelchair that his knuckles went completely white. “I’m trying my best.”_

_“You are trying, yes,” Faye agreed. “But not your best just yet.”_

“Sir!” Annika shouts, from very far away. “ _Sir!_ ”

Essek blinks his eyes open.

He has slid to his knees, and only the railing is keeping him from falling. With some effort, he tries to push himself to his feet, putting all of his weight on his arms as his knees continue to buckle beneath him. Annika hovers by his side, knowing better than to help him without being asked. She is soaked in sea water, but she seems alright as she brushes her hair from her face and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

It’s quiet.

The air is clear. So is the sea. The only noise comes from the creaking of two abandoned ships, still pressed together, swaying lightly in gentle wind. White, fluffy clouds roll across the darkening, unfamiliar sky.

“It’s gone,” Annika says, still clutching her bow in one hand. “It took my arrows with it.”

Startled, Essek laughs. “My bad,” he says, maintaining a faint smile. “I’ll get you some new ones.”

“Good,” Annika says and when Essek gives up and reaches out to her, she catches his arm without a pause. “What do we do now?”

Essek laughs again, lightheaded with exhaustion.

There will be time to be worried, there will be time to think, there will be time to plan — but for now, his heart beats wildly in his chest, triumphant, powerful, and — and so very much _alive_. 

_Now that, darling — that's what I'm talking about._

“Now, I imagine,” Essek says, “we wait to be rescued.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind readers, thank you so much for reading the first part, and thank you for all your lovely comments! :') It means a great deal to me that so far you've enjoyed this story enough to share your thoughts with me. ♥ 
> 
> Just a reminder: this story has been planned out long before episode 91, so Essek's past - which plays a significant part in the story - is different from his canon backstory. It obviously affects his characterization as well. Rest assured I'm sitting here in my second-best clown shoes! (My first-best clown shoes are for when it turns out that he's been working with the Assembly this entire goddamn time.)

*

The silence in the throne room is deafening.

Essek can still feel his heart pounding in his chest, can still hear blood rushing through his veins and air rushing through his lungs, but the heady sense of power and victory is gone now, replaced by a dull absence of feeling as he stands before the Bright Queen, with his fingers curled into fists and his magic biting harshly at the soft skin of his palms.

“It was not the Empire,” Essek says quietly, but his voice still echoes in the dead silence surrounding him, and truly, he might as well be alone in the room, and the room might as well be underwater. “You know this. You all know this.”

Cynthia clears her throat delicately. “Even if the Empire didn’t open the rift,” she says, “they must have weakened the wards. It could only have been done from the inside.”

“The Empire knew,” Lythir interjects, while the other members of the Council nod in agreement. “That’s enough for me.”

There is no winning this argument. Essek can recognize a losing battle when he sees one. Still, the pendants on his neck are a heavy weight to carry, and it will only grow heavier once he has to send more of his Shadows to fight beneath unfamiliar skies.

“Someone has to be the first to stop,” he says, looking up at the Bright Queen, who is yet to speak. “Or else it will never end.”

The Bright Queen sighs, leaning back in her throne. While her beauty is, as always, staggering, the tiredness in her eyes is plain to see. She is silent for a long moment, gazing off into distance, and the Council remains quiet as well, awaiting her words.

“As long as they have our Beacons,” the Bright Queen says in the end, “we owe it to our people to fight.”

“But _our people_ will die in that fight!” Essek snaps, ignoring Cynthia’s sharp intake of breath and the ripple of tension that travels through the room. “Our Echo Knights, our Shadows. They will die for nothing while the real threat remains unaddressed!”

There is a huff of whispers, a breath of indignation, but the Bright Queen continues gazing calmly at Essek.

“The real threat,” she repeats. “You speak of the Chained Oblivion.”

Skysybil clears her throat. “People have been trying to release Tharizdun for as long as it had been chained.”

“My Queen, our priority has to be the war,” Lythir says. “We cannot spare resources on fairy tales.”

Nods, again. Essek looks around the Council and everyone studiously avoids his gaze.

“Once the Chained Oblivion is released,” he says, “there will be no war to fight. No people to protect.”

He tries, one last time, to catch someone’s gaze, but not a single member of the Council meets his eye.

The Bright Queen sighs and leans forward in her throne. “The attempt to break the Shackle in Rexxentrum, while troubling, is not unprecedented,” she says at length. “Even if there is, as your friends claim, a cult of the Chained Oblivion, the threat it poses is far less imminent than the threat posed by the Empire. The Beacons have to be our priority. The souls of our people must be returned home.”

Essek lets out a quiet breath, letting his shoulders fall. “If that is the case,” he says quietly, “I shall send out my Shadows to gather intelligence. I’m certain that in time, we can ascertain the location of the Beacons.”

Lythir clears his throat pointedly. The Bright Queen glances at him and nods in acknowledgement.

“While the Beacons are the priority,” she says, “we will also need the Shadows for the war effort, Shadowhand. There is no group in our military better prepared to infiltrate enemy compounds.”

Essek closes his eyes for a moment as the cold in his chest spreads and spreads, the chain on his neck burning against his skin like molten iron. “My Queen, we stand a better chance of retrieving the Beacons if all of our remaining Shadows focus on that task.”

“My Queen,” Lythir interjects again. “That would put our Echo Knights in danger. If we intend to attack the Rockguard Garrison —”

“The Rockguard Garrison?” Essek repeats; that’s certainly new. “There is no Beacon in the Rockguard Garrison.”

Lythir slants him a look. “No,” he says, “but the Empire is at our doorstep. If we want to protect our people, we must push their military further away from our borders.”

Essek frowns, looking to the Bright Queen. “My Queen, we have the means to execute precise attacks and retrieve the missing Beacons without needless bloodshed at our borders. There is no need to attack the Rockguard Garrison.”

“Leave the war to the Masters of War, Shadowhand,” Lythir interrupts sharply. “Focus on your spies.”

“I _am_ focused,” Essek snarls, finally losing his patience and whirling around to face Lythir. “You’re the one attempting to involve my spies in your lightforsaken war.”

“ _Enough_ ,” the Bright Queen says, very quietly. The entire Council freezes mid-breath as she leans forward in her throne. “The Shadows,” she says, “belong to the Dynasty, Shadowhand. The war, General, concerns us all, and so everyone is entitled to their opinion. Whatever the issue between the two of you, I _strongly_ advise you to resolve it quickly.”

“My Queen,” Lythir says, bowing deeply.

“My Queen,” Essek echoes, curling his fingers even tighter into fists.

“We begin preparations tomorrow,” the Bright Queen says. “You are dismissed.”

Essek bows curtly, turning around and pushing the door open with a flare of magic before the guards can even move from their positions. There will be a price to pay for his impertinence, but he cares little about it now, familiar fury thrumming just beneath his skin.

Nyss is waiting for him in the corridor, perched carelessly on the window sill, with one knee bent up to her chest and the other leg hanging in the air. The soles of her shoes are stained with mud and rain. She hops down when she notices him, carelessly trailing dirt across the marble floor.

Slipping into the rough, sharp dialect of the Corona District, she says, “Annika told me what happened. They didn’t listen to you, did they?”

“No,” Essek says. In the very same dialect, he adds, “They want this war just as much as the Empire does.”

Nyss huffs through her nose. “I don’t know how you can stand them. With their big fucking words. Waging wars from the height of their thrones.”

“Nyss…”

“I don’t care if they hear,” she snaps. “Nobody in this fucking castle speaks this language except for you and me. That should tell them something, shouldn’t it?”

Essek frowns, studying her expression. “There is something else, isn’t there. What is it?”

Nyss huffs a furious breath, shoving her hands roughly into the pockets of her overcoat.

“We’ve got recruitment orders,” she says. “Again.”

Essek shrugs. “Then we politely ignore them, again. Shockingly, no one met our requirements.”

“I don’t think we can ignore them,” Nyss says, tensing even further. “Not this time. I don’t think — I don’t think Rylan is coming back. And with so many others gone, we’ll soon start running out of blood to spill.”

“Perhaps someone else should be spilling their blood,” Essek snaps.

“Tell that to them, then,” Nyss snaps right back, gesturing to the throne room. “Not to me.”

Essek closes his eyes. “I apologize,” he says quietly. “You are right. This is mine to carry, not yours.”

Nyss sighs, then reaches out to touch his arm. “I wish it weren’t yours to carry alone.”

In the corner of his mind, Essek registers a quiet resonance of familiar magic, and seconds later there is an echo of footsteps in the corridor. The footsteps are not rushed, nor do they carry the usual careless confidence, but they are familiar nonetheless.

It’s the Mighty Nein.

They all pause at the sight of him, just as Nyss’ hand falls from Essek’s shoulder. Essek can tell from their expressions that they weren’t any more successful than he was.

Nyss glances between them and then, with one last squeeze of Essek’s forearm, she turns around and leaves.

Essek drifts closer to the Mighty Nein. The group remains frozen in place, mostly avoiding his gaze.

Finally, Fjord clears his throat. “They didn’t believe us,” he says quietly. “They didn’t even really listen.”

“We tried, Essek,” Jester adds softly, stepping forward and bumping shoulders with Fjord. “We really did.”

Essek’s gaze drifts to Caleb and Beauregard who stand shoulder to shoulder, completely silent and still. Nott is holding Caleb’s hand. Yasha, by Beauregard’s side, is the only one of the four to briefly meet Essek’s gaze.

Essek sighs. “I know you did,” he says quietly. “So did I.”

The group seems to deflate even further at his words, shoulders falling, gazes skittering away.

“So what happens now?” Beauregard asks, a touch too loudly, as if to make up for the silence of the group.

Caleb spares her a glance before once again looking off to the side. Yasha reaches out, as if to touch Beauregard’s shoulder, and then she lets her hand fall back to her side.

Essek offers a shrug. “War happens,” he says at length. “Again.”

Caleb clears his throat. Still without meeting Essek’s gaze, he says, “And if we found the Beacons?”

“I don’t know,” Essek says honestly. “I’d like to believe that would be the end of it. But I don’t know.”

The Mighty Nein looks among themselves, and the strange air of resignation is troubling, to say the least. Then, without uttering a single word, they slowly seem to come to an agreement. There are a few huffs, a few sighs, a few shrugs. Gazes are met and then averted, shoulders are pressed together, gestures are exchanged. Strangely, like one living organism, they seem to pick themselves up, dust themselves off, breathe in, breathe out.

Beauregard says, “Then I guess we’ll find out.”

The rest of them nods, with a various degree of solemnity and determination.

Fjord looks around the group. “We’ll just pick a few things from the Xhorhaus and we’ll be on our way.”

Essek nods, relieved to see them at least a little more animated. “I’ll accompany you there.”

Without the typical fanfare, they make their way through the corridors of the Lucid Bastion, catching fewer curious glances than usual as they pass clusters of troubled dignitaries. The Mighty Nein’s silence is troubling, as is the exhaustion they carry in their shoulders, but there is little Essek can do to ease their minds, so he remains silent as well.

Yasha, who has been walking next to Essek, looks around the group as they leave the Lucid Bastion.

“So,” she says at length, “what happened with that rift? And with that… thing?”

Caleb, walking silently by Yasha’s other side, glances up at that, but he still avoids Essek’s gaze.

Essek shrugs. “The rift is closed,” he says. “We pushed the thing back to the other side.”

“Impressive,” Yasha acknowledges. “What of your ship?”

“Someone will collect it. What of _your_ ship?”

“Oh, Orly will handle that,” Jester speaks up, clearly trying for her usual cheer. “We sent him a message. He’ll sail back to Nicodranas.”

“He was too far away to see what happened exactly,” Fjord adds, “but he sure saw the rift.”

Essek hums, but the group has already lost interest, moving on to discuss their last visit in Nicodranas. Their chatter slowly but surely becomes animated and energetic again, and Essek smiles at them in quiet relief. Letting his thoughts drift, he follows the group until they come to a stop before Faye’s house.

“Alright,” Beauregard says. “Meet downstairs in thirty!”

The group disperses quickly with a chorus of more and less heartfelt goodbyes directed at Essek — except for Caleb, who remains by Essek’s side.

Essek glances at him from the corner of his eye. “Don’t you need to pack?”

Caleb shakes his head, looking up at the house. “I always carry with me everything I need.”

His Familiar, the strange, fluffy orange cat, winds between his legs and meows quietly. Caleb picks it up and presses an absent kiss to the cat’s head, then expertly avoids a playful paw aimed at his face.

Without looking at Essek, he says, “Are you alright?”

Essek frowns. “Me?”

Caleb does slant him a look this time. “Yes, _you_ ,” he says. “We’ve seen what you did. Some of it, anyway.”

Essek stiffens. In retrospect, he can’t recall when his levitation spell faltered — before or after the quiet swish of teleportation spell behind his back. He remembers clutching at the railing, remembers his legs folding beneath him, remembers sliding to his knees.

“I see,” he says coolly.

Caleb blinks, taken aback. “Did I… did I say something wrong?”

“I’m fine,” Essek says in a more neutral tone, managing to wrestle his wounded pride under control again. “It was nothing.”

Caleb frowns. He puts his Familiar back on the ground and looks to Essek.

“It very clearly wasn’t nothing,” he says carefully. “Essek, what you did was —”

“I don’t want to discuss it,” Essek interrupts again. “And I don’t want your… your pity.”

Caleb inhales sharply. “ _Pity_?” he repeats incredulously. “Why the hell would I —”

“Please,” Essek interrupts. “Leave it.”

Caleb looks like he wants to continue arguing, but eventually he just shakes his head, falling silent again. The tension in his shoulders that he only lately stopped carrying around Essek is back again, and a small part of Essek immediately regrets his words. Another part of him, though, the part that still clearly remembers having nothing but his own stubborn pride, pushes the apology back down his throat.

Caleb breathes out a sigh. “We’ll keep you updated,” he says quietly, with his hands back in the pockets of his coat, with his gaze back on the house. “We’ll let you know if we find anything.”

The regret in Essek’s chest weighs even heavier at the words.

“Thank you,” he says, just as quietly. He swallows past the strange tightness in his throat. “I suppose… I suppose I should go. Unless you need transportation to the Empire?”

“We can handle it,” Caleb says, his tone still absent. Then he sighs, shakes his head, and glances at Essek again. “Thank you for trying today,” he says. “I wish it had worked out.”

Essek lets his shoulders drop, just a little. “So do I.”

Caleb smiles, but there is no joy in it at all. His shoulders relax a little again, though the ease with which he existed lately in Essek’s presence, noticeable only now that it’s gone, remains absent. Essek should turn around and leave, should go back to his home and back to his duties, but it might be weeks, months even, before he sees the Mighty Nein again. And in truth, he misses them already.

Tentatively, he reaches out and places his hand lightly on Caleb’s shoulder.

Caleb doesn’t startle, but he glances to Essek quickly before looking away again.

Making sure to catch his gaze again, Essek says, “Thank you for trying, too.”

Caleb lets out a long breath, and finally, the tension leaves his shoulders again as he turns to face Essek. His head is bowed, his hair falling into his eyes, and Essek is suddenly overcome with a need to brush the unruly strands away and tuck them safely behind Caleb’s ear. He doesn’t do it, of course, but he squeezes Caleb shoulder just a little.

“We will find a way,” he says quietly. “Or we’ll make one.”

Caleb sighs again, straightening and inadvertently meeting Essek’s gaze. The glow of the tree lights reflects in his eyes with a strangely captivating brightness. Slowly, Essek lets his hand fall to his side, but Caleb doesn’t immediately step away.

“I know we will,” he says.

Lightning-quick, he catches Essek’s hand, his thumb brushing over Essek’s knuckles while his fingertips press briefly into the palm of Essek’s hand. Then, just as quickly, he lets go and steps back, and between one blink and the next, he disappears inside the house.

*

“It’s better this way,” Nyss says. “It’s better than a draft.”

The Corona District is, as always, busy and loud. The air is heavy with rain while the rickety houses struggle against the wind. Essek is grateful for the spell keeping him afloat, away from the slippery mud on the road, so different from the polished cobblestones of the upper districts of Rosohna. Nyss doesn’t seem to mind the mud or the rain, walking down the street with a confidence of someone who belongs, even though her armor is more expensive than some of the buildings in the vicinity. Then again, Essek could buy his parents’ house ten times over with the clothes he is wearing, if the house still existed.

On the other side of Essek is Maeve, silent as she always is. Her silver hair, cut sharp at the jaw just like her brother’s, glimmer lightly in the faint light of the torches. Acantha is perched on top of Maeve’s staff, nodding off in the nest of vines that bloomed just to support her weight.

“This _is_ a draft,” Essek says. “It’s not like they have many career prospects.”

Nyss shrugs. “At least you’re not lying to them,” she says. “Siverlin sold us quite a story.”

“Siverlin was not a good man,” Maeve agrees, which coming from her, is scathing criticism. “He was a good spymaster, perhaps, but he was not a good man.”

Siverlin, Essek thinks, without the usual flare of hatred that used to come with remembering the name, was first and foremost a bitter man. Essek cannot fathom doing what he is doing for hundreds of years, sending his Shadows out there time and time again and rarely seeing them return, then coming here, to the Corona District, to lure more kids to their deaths with a promise of glory and honor.

“And it’s not like this is the worst thing to have happened to us,” Nyss says, pushing her hands into the pockets of her overcoat. “It’s not all good, true, but it still beats starving to death here.”

“Those shouldn’t be anyone’s only options,” Essek says, slipping automatically into the dialect of the Corona District as the familiar anger once again begins to simmer beneath his skin.

“Yes, Essek,” Nyss says impatiently, “but the world is what it is. And we are what we are.”

“It’s not as bad as it used to be before the landslide, Essek,” Maeve adds softly.

The rain picks up in force. The rivulets of water, mixed with dirt and mud, trail through the streets, down, down, down. A large leaf is pushed along with the stream and Essek stares at it fixedly until Nyss reaches out and squeezes his arm.

“We’ll have to pass through our street,” she says quietly, her impatience fading away. “Will you be okay?”

“Will _you_?” Essek asks incredulously.

Nyss shrugs, though her smile is strained. “I hang out around here far more often than you do. Made this walk with Rylan a thousand times. Her father lives a little further down, where the bakery used to be, remember?”

And Essek does remember. He remembers the smell of fresh bread, twisting his empty stomach in knots. He remembers the warm glow of fire trapped behind cold, impervious windows. He remembers Nyss small hand pressed next to his own as they gazed inside for hours and hours with hungry, curious eyes.

And he remembers the creak of wood as the walls strained and strained against the mud and the rain.

“Still no news about Rylan?” he asks quietly.

“No.”

Looking at Nyss now, Essek wonders how he has missed this. His Shadows often spend time together, as Essek has always encouraged them to do, but Nyss and Rylan were always nearly joined at the hip, their hands flying in animated discussions, Nyss’ loud laughter accompanied by Rylan’s quiet smiles.

He wonders if knowing would have changed his decision.

“It’s like nothing happened,” Maeve says softly, dragging Essek back out of his thoughts.

He looks around and instantly realizes where they are, even though he recognizes none of the buildings. Still, he remembers the mud on the road, clinging to the wheels of his wheelchair. He remembers the noise, too, the chatter of the neighbors stopping by and greeting each other, tired and frustrated and yet always willing to help one another in the way that people in the upper districts never are. He remembers their kindness, their perseverance, their courage. And he remembers their deaths.

The new houses are eerily similar to the old ones, but the people are no longer recognizable. There is a drain by the street now, but even after just a few hours of rain, it’s already overflowing. When Essek closes his eyes, he can almost hear the muddy, unreliable ground shift beneath the buildings, putting endless pressure on paper-thin walls.

The people on the street watch him with open distrust, the same way Essek and Nyss would once watch any dignitary who deigned to visit the Corona District. Some avert their gazes when he looks to them, some offer stiff bows, others ignore him entirely with an air of insubordination. Essek focuses on moving forward, pretending not to see the gap that people deliberately leave around them, even when the street grows crowded with passersby and carts.

“It’s not far now,” Nyss says in a fiercely upbeat tone, as they finally cross the street and she leads them into one of the alleys. The street is still vaguely familiar, but at least it doesn’t remind Essek of the creak of the wood, or the screaming, or the way his magic trembled beneath his fingers, so feeble and weak, before his strength inevitably gave out.

_You did everything you could, darling_ , Faye told him later, while he lied on crispy white sheets beneath a crispy white ceiling. _That’s all any of us can ever hope to do._

Maeve, who has been following them in silence for a while, clears her throat delicately and Essek once again snaps out of his thoughts, realizing that they have reached a small open square between the buildings. There is a well in the middle, the lid closed to protect the water from the rain. The houses framing the square are leaning forward under the onslaught of the rain, gloomy and miserable. Essek drags his gaze away from the shuttered windows and focuses on the group gathered in the square.

There are only four of them, a Drow, two Tieflings, and an Elven girl perched on the edge of the well.

Nyss gestures to them. “Here they are,” she says. “Everyone, this is the Shadowhand to the Bright Queen. My name is Nyss. And this is Maeve.”

The group barely reacts, watching them with matching non-expressions.

Essek clears his throat, stepping forward. “I could try to impress you,” he says, slipping into Corona’s dialect again. “But I expect you’re not easily impressed. The training I’m offering won’t be easy. And your work will be harder. It’ll be for the good of the Dynasty, but it will not always be _good_. If you are ever captured, you will be tortured and executed. Without mercy, without trial. Someday you will die, far away from home, beneath unfamiliar skies. It will not be a valiant, beautiful death. It will be as ugly and senseless as you all know death to be. But until that day, you will have a roof over your head and you will have a family, even if right now you have neither. And you will have my word that I’ll always do my best to bring you home.”

The speech, as expected, discourages most of them. In the end only the Elven girl remains, still perched on the edge of the well. She is dressed in plain dark clothes, her features sharpened by hunger. Her hair, dirty blond, is cut haphazardly short.

She looks at Essek with unfathomably green eyes.

“What’s your name?” Essek asks.

“I go by Ivy lately,” the girl replies, without moving. “What’s _yours_?”

Essek smiles. “I lately go by Essek Thelyss,” he replies.

“Thelyss,” Ivy repeats. “Not bad.”

Nyss clears her throat. “I found her in a fighting pit. She was holding her own, easily so.”

Essek hums. “Why do you want to join the Shadows, Ivy?”

Ivy shrugs, still otherwise unmoving. “Because I’ll be good at it.”

“Will you?” Essek asks, tilting his head to the side. “Very well. Show me something impressive.”

Ivy doesn’t move a muscle. “I fight with my hands, Shadowhand,” she says, smiling with an air of mockery around his title. “There’s little showmanship.”

Essek smiles again, stepping away from Maeve’s barrier protecting them all from the rain. Immediately, the water soaks through his clothes and the cold seeps all the way to his bones. He wipes his hair out of his eyes.

“I don’t need showmanship,” he says, opening his hands in invitation. “Well?”

“You want me to hit you,” Ivy says dubiously, though she slides smoothly to her feet, planting her legs firmly in the mud. Her eyes, nearly unblinking, are focused on Essek entirely.

Essek raises an eyebrow. “I certainly want you to try.”

Ivy huffs a breath. Essek watches her, letting his thoughts fall away as he focuses. He looks at the droplets of rain falling from the sky, at the clouds rolling just above the rooftops. He focuses on his breathing, in and out. Time, uncooperative as it always is, finally begins to give in, slowing down, down, down.

With detached focus, he watches Ivy approach, her footwork nearly flawless as she feigns to the right and then to the left, still fast despite Essek’s magic bending time around them. With some conscious effort, he manages to shift away from Ivy’s fist as it flies by his face, brushing by his hair. The other hit comes for his stomach, and Essek casts _Shield_ on instinct. Ivy barely flinches as her hand crashes against Essek’s magic with a horrible crunch of bones. She falls to her left leg and kicks out with the right one, aiming for Essek’s knee. Essek pulls back again, just in time. And ducks again. And casts _Shield_ again.

Ivy fights with a determination he recognizes. It’s the determination of a person with nothing to lose. Still, he evades one punch after another, watching Ivy’s green eyes as they remain focused on him.

“Very well,” he says, ducking from another punch, “but not your best just yet.”

Ivy snarls wordlessly, and this time her fists fly even faster, as if Essek’s spell doesn’t affect them at all. She punches, kicks out, swirls around, kicks again, strikes again, and Essek pulls back, ducks, pulls back, ducks again, and then —

— and then a fist finally collides with his mouth.

“ _Stop_ ,” he says and the spell freezes Ivy in place. “Enough.”

He lets go of the spell and Ivy breathes out a haggard breath. “What the _fuck_ was that?” she says, clutching at her side, still breathing heavily. “How the fuck are you so fast?”

“Dunamancy,” Essek replies, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I slowed down the passage of time for myself. I wouldn’t be able to avoid your strikes otherwise. Quite impressive, Ivy.”

Ivy huffs a breath, still watching him suspiciously. “Well, am I in, then?”

“It depends,” Essek says, running a hand through his hair. “Why aren’t you afraid of death?”

Ivy blinks at him, and for the first time, she seems to lose her footing in the conversation.

“I… what?”

“Answer me, please,” Essek says, watching her intently. “Fighting pits are one thing. Being one of the Dynasty’s Shadows is quite another. And I think you know this.”

Ivy doesn’t respond for a long moment, staring at Essek with stubborn impertinence he recognizes. Eventually, though, she sighs and her gaze flicks away.

“Well,” she says, “I hear death in combat pays quite well.”

“You have a family, then,” Essek says quietly.

“I do,” Ivy replies sharply. “But my sisters are not fancy enough for all your fancy fucking schools.”

Essek looks at her for a moment. Then he says, “Very well. You will begin training tomorrow at dawn. Maeve will meet you at the training grounds. Can you find your way there?”

“I’ll manage,” Ivy says, her gaze flicking briefly to Maeve. “Are we done here?”

“We’re done,” Essek confirms. Before Ivy can walk away, though, he says, “As for your sisters, Ivy. Consider that taken care of.”

Ivy raises an eyebrow. “I know this job pays well, but it doesn’t pay _that_ well.”

“Consider that taken care of,” Essek repeats. “Whether you complete your training or not.”

Ivy hums, still watching Essek with obvious distrust. “Okay,” she says at length. “Whatever.”

Without another word, she leaves the square, not once glancing back.

Nyss sighs. “You can’t keep doing this, Essek.”

Essek shrugs, turning around and pushing his hands into the folds of his mantle again. In his head, he runs through the calculations. It will be a tight squeeze with the new bow he intends to order for Annika and with a thousand other things that the Lucid Bastion would never cover, but he will make it work.

He says, “Clearly, I can.”

“Faye was rich, but she wasn’t _that_ rich,” Nyss says. “If you keep giving her money out like that —”

“I can’t work with a Shadow who doesn’t mind dying,” Essek interrupts. “If she doesn’t want to come home, if she doesn’t fight for it with all her heart, she won’t last a day. Who would I be if I sent her on a mission knowing she’ll never return?”

“Not you, apparently,” Nyss says, bumping her shoulder gently against his. She tugs at Maeve’s elbow and slips her hand carelessly into Essek’s. “Come on, let’s grab something to eat on our way back, yeah? The upper districts know nothing about food.”

*

The Mighty Nein returns far sooner than Essek has expected. They have messaged him, from time to time, and Essek messaged them back whenever he managed to gather any information either on the Beacons, or the Chained Oblivion. Still, he hasn’t expected them to return so soon.

And he certainly hasn’t expected them to bring the kind of news they brought.

“And you are certain this is the missing Beacon,” the Bright Queen says, watching the Mighty Nein with sharp focus. “Not another attempt to deceive us.”

They are gathered in the throne room — the Mighty Nein, the Bright Queen, and Essek. Lythir is there as well, watching from the sidelines, offering absolutely nothing except for his silent contempt.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Caleb says, just as Jester hums and offers, “Yep, pretty sure!”

“As certain as we can be,” Caleb amends.

The Bright Queen leans back in her throne, falling silent for a long moment. “Does our intelligence support this claim?” she asks, directing the question at Essek.

“Partially, my Queen,” Essek says carefully.

“Very well,” the Bright Queen says. “Whether the information you provide is accurate or not, we must investigate. And we must investigate now. We cannot risk the Beacon being moved again.”

She looks meaningfully to Essek and he snaps out of his musings, straightening.

“Of course, my Queen,” he says. “I’ll start preparing right away.”

The Bright Queen, however, shakes her head. “I’m afraid it cannot be you,” she says, and though her gaze softens somewhat, her voice doesn’t waver. “One of the Shadows will go.”

Essek frowns. “While I trust in their abilities completely, my Queen,” he says, “my — Dynasty’s Shadows are unlikely to stand a chance against the Assembly.”

“I’m well aware,” the Bright Queen responds. “I believe we have one teleportation stone on our disposal right now. If attached to the Beacon, it will transport it to Rosohna. The Shadow’s mission will be to infiltrate the safehouse and send the Beacon back home.”

The cold weight in Essek’s chest rises up to his throat like a wave of nausea. He breathes in, breathes out, and tries not to think of the ever-present weight of the pendants hanging around his neck.

“My Queen,” he says slowly, politely, bowing again, “if that’s the mission at hand, I’m still the person most suitable to carry it out. If anyone can break the Assembly’s anti-teleportation wards, it’s me.”

“Anti-teleportation wards should not affect an inanimate object,” the Bright Queen says, and though her voice is still soft, her gaze hardens. “Our priority is the Beacon. While I do hope the Shadow manages to return home, that hope cannot guide my decisions.”

“My Queen —”

“That’s enough, Essek,” the Bright Queen says. “One of the Shadows will go. And if they die, they will die. But they will have done a great service to the Dynasty, and their name will live on in our history.”

It’s unreasonable to argue. It is. _It is._

“There _must_ be another way,” Essek says nonetheless. “ _Umavi_ , if I may have a moment to consider the matter, I’m certain I can —”

“We do not have the time,” the Bright Queen interrupts. “If you do not go and prepare your chosen Shadow for their mission, I will send Lythir to do it instead. You are _dismissed_ , Shadowhand.”

Essek can nearly feel the Mighty Nein’s collective tension, but he tries not to think about them. He fiercely wishes they weren’t in the room, if only so he could keep his dignity, but that matters very little now. Essek’s stubborn pride, while heavy, will never outweigh the pendants on his neck.

“My Queen —”

“Not another word, Essek.”

“ _My Queen_ ,” Essek pushes nonetheless, nearly _feeling_ Lythir’s grin grow wide from all the way across the room, “if that is the case, please grant me one request. When the Beacon is here, when the mission is done, please let me go and bring my Shadow home.”

The Bright Queen’s gaze is hard. Essek knows, with soul-deep certainty, that this will not be simply forgiven. He has challenged the Queen and there will be a price to pay. Nonetheless, the pendants on his neck are a far more immediate weight.

“I cannot grant you permission to do that,” the Bright Queen says. “Whether you act it or not right now, you are my Shadowhand. I cannot allow you to risk your life retrieving a mere spy.”

The cold weight in Essek’s stomach now feels like an ocean of ice. He has sent his Shadows on dangerous missions before. He has sent his Shadows to fight beneath unfamiliar skies.

He has never before sent one of his Shadows to _die_.

“Your Grace,” Caleb interjects, stepping forward and snapping Essek out of his thoughts, “I apologize if I am overstepping, but… we could go with him. I… I know the layout of that building.”

There is a pause. Then —

“And,” Beauregard speaks up, “we’ve done these kind of missions before. It’s not that big a deal.”

“It’s nothing we can’t handle,” Yasha agrees.

“And we’re like, pretty sneaky,” Jester adds.

Nott clears her throat. “Some of us, anyway.”

“And it seems,” Fjord adds, “like the right thing to do, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Caduceus says agreeably. “We would hardly want to leave a friend behind.”

Essek doesn’t look at them; he can’t. He feels flayed open, for all the world to see. He should have been able to handle this alone. He shouldn’t have needed their rescue.

The Bright Queen is silent for a long moment. “Very well,” she says finally and Essek’s grasp on his magic nearly falters as a wave of relief ripples through his entire body, his humiliation briefly forgotten. “Once the Beacon is here, _and only then_ , you can attempt to retrieve the Shadow.”

“Thank you, my Queen,” Essek says, bowing again, if only to hide the trembling of his hands.

“Do not forget this, Essek,” the Bright Queen says, the softness gone from her gaze, “as I will not.”

“Yes, my Queen,” Essek says, and though her words send a pang of dread through him, regret doesn’t follow. If this saves his Shadow’s life, it will have been worth it, a thousand-fold.

“You have two hours to prepare,” the Bright Queen says. “The Mighty Nein will assist you in any manner you require. And then you will wait at the teleportation circle until the Beacon arrives, and Lythir will wait with you.”

“My Queen,” Lythir says, bowing deeply.

“My Queen,” Essek echoes.

“Dismissed,” the Bright Queen says, waving them away, and Essek turns right around, already running through plans and solutions in his head, very aware of every second ticking by, and nearly just as aware of the Mighty Nein disregarding protocol completely as they rush to follow him.

Lythir catches up with him first, though, moving light on his feet.

“Always a pleasure to see your crawl,” he says, offering a pleasant smile as they pass the guards.

Essek opens his mouth to reply, but the Mighty Nein, once again, beats him to it.

“Not as much pleasure, certainly, as watching you run away,” Fjord says.

“From a lost battle, no less,” Beauregard adds, elbowing Fjord with a smile.

Lythir bristles, his magic flaring in a way that under any other circumstances would cause even Essek to pause. Now, though, he has one hour and fifty eight minutes to figure out a way to save his Shadow’s life. He focuses, doesn’t even think of a spell — _if there is no path, darling, then make one_ — and dispels the magic right out of Lythir’s hands.

“Three lifetimes, Lythir,” he snarls, “and you’re still not worth my time.”

He doesn’t turn around to see if the Mighty Nein follows. He makes his way out of the Lucid Bastion, slowing down only when he is out of the gate and the weight of the decision he has to make finally catches up with him. He knows his Shadows, of course. He knows the one he has to send.

The Mighty Nein catches up to him a moment later, though they falter when they see that he has stopped.

“Should we come with you?” Caleb asks uncertainly. “Or should we just wait here?”

“I do need your help,” Essek says, forcing himself to look back at them. _Help,_ his mind snarls at him viciously, but Essek ignores it. “You’ve said you know the layout of the building. That will be extremely useful to her.”

“Okay,” Caleb says, with barely any pause at all, before turning back to the Mighty Nein. “I’ll go with him,” he says. “Get ready in the meantime.”

“Shouldn’t we come with you?” Beauregard asks, frowning slightly.

“Um, I —”

“Nope, he will be fine,” Nott interrupts, tugging at Beauregard’s wrist. “Come on. Let’s get you, well, let’s get you some throwing stars, right?” When she managed to tug Beauregard away, she peers up at Caleb and asks in a much quieter voice. “You will be fine, right?”

Caleb offers a rare smile. “Yes, _mein_ _Schatz_. I will be fine.”

Without waiting for Caleb, Essek starts moving towards the small house he can already see down the street.

He wishes it was farther. He wishes it was still in the Corona District, a tiny room above the butcher’s shop, with broken shutters in the windows and with doors that didn’t close all the way. Bitterly cold and miserable as it was, it would be safe from the Shadowhand to the Bright Queen.

But the room above the butcher’s shop, along with the butcher’s shop, no longer exists. And Nyss’ house is not far away, and it’s not miserable, and it’s not cold. And it’s not safe from Essek at all.

The windows of the house are thrown open, the white and blue flowers in the little garden swaying lightly in the wind. Nyss is perched on the window sill, with one leg dangling carelessly over the edge and the other one tucked to her chest. Surprisingly, she isn’t toying with her daggers; instead Essek recognizes a familiar harmonica in her hands. She plays a few notes, absurdly off-key, before she notices Essek and Caleb.

Essek gathers himself, squares his shoulders, raises his chin — _then play at bravery, darling, until you are brave_ — and meets her gaze, giving a simple nod in greeting.

Nyss looks at Essek and past his shoulder at Caleb and it takes her less than a second to draw all the right conclusions. The cold weight in Essek’s chest chills even further as Nyss hops off the window sill, landing steadily on her feet. She tosses Everett’s harmonica up in the air once and then slides it into the pocket of her overcoat.

For a moment, Essek considers changing his mind, turning around and walking away, but he cannot, of course. He is the Shadowhand to the Bright Queen. This is all he is and all he’ll ever be. And he will do what he must do.

“May we come in?” he asks.

Nyss nods, pushing the door open with a wave of her hand.

There is a fire crackling on the fireplace. There are white blinds dancing in the windows. There is a smell of hot chocolate in the air. Essek approaches the table in the center of the room and takes out his spell book, while Caleb follows cautiously and stops by his side.

“The mission is to infiltrate a safehouse and retrieve an object,” Essek says, waving his hand in the air to summon a roll of parchment from his pocket dimension. The parchment spreads over the table, covering it from edge to edge. “The missing Beacon.”

Nyss’ eyebrows rise, her gaze flicking briefly to Caleb and then to Essek, and though Essek understands the question easily enough, he doesn’t address it — there is no time for that.

He turns to Caleb, reaching once again to the pocket dimension for the necessary components.

“If you could place your hand on the parchment, please,” he says, “and imagine the building in question as closely as you can, with as many details as you can. Use all memories you have on your disposal, no matter how trivial or blurred.”

Caleb frowns. “Place my hand…?”

“Please,” Essek repeats.

Caleb does as he is told, albeit frowning still, and closes his eyes to focus. Nyss raises an eyebrow again when Essek cuts the palm of his own hand; thankfully, she doesn’t comment. There is a tug at Essek’s power, but he easily ignores it. _Magic isn’t just knowledge, darling, magic is instinct. Magic is blood_.

Slowly, rivulets of crimson start traveling across the parchment, meeting and crossing to paint walls and floors, windows and doors. By the time the plan is done, Essek feels a touch lightheaded, but it’s worth it when he looks down at the intricate lines and discovers that for the first time since he designed the spell, no part of the plan is blurry or unclear. It’s only partially his achievement, of course; most of it is Caleb’s photographic memory. He is quietly pleased nonetheless.

He pulls his hand away, pressing the edge of his sleeve against the cut. Caleb opens his eyes in the same exact moment, blinking down at the plan of the manor and then at Essek’s hand, easily connecting the dots. He frowns.

“Impressive,” he says, “but I could have drawn the plan for you.”

Essek smiles, whispering the verbal components of the spell, and the tug on his power is nearly pleasant now as the blood glows gold and the plan becomes dimensional, walls rising, windows filling with shimmering facsimile of glass, furniture appearing in the rooms. The second floor materializes over the first one and then the roof materializes over the entire building.

For a moment, Caleb is silent. Then he blinks and shakes his head.

“I…” he says, “I suppose I would have trouble drawing that.”

Nyss is already circling the illusion, used to the spell as she is, examining the building for any weaker points. The earrings in her ear glimmer in the golden light and it occurs to Essek that he has never asked about the new ones — and that now he never will.

“Once you reach the Beacon, you will attach it to the teleportation stone,” he says, once they reach the last stages of the plan. “And the stone will take it to Rosohna.”

Nyss looks up at that, lights and shadows dancing on her face and in the curls of her hair. She understands right away, just as Essek knew she would. Nothing in her expression changes.

“Understood,” she says, meeting Essek’s gaze over the illusion. Slowly, she fishes out the harmonica out of her pocket and tosses it to Essek. “Pass this to Everett, will you?”

With a heavy heart, Essek catches the instrument. “Of course.”

There is no room for anything else. Essek is not here as Nyss’ friend, he cannot be. He cannot offer reassurances — there are none to offer. He can’t even lie; unlike most people, Nyss would see through it.

“You have thirteen minutes left,” Caleb says quietly, reminding Essek of his presence.

Essek glances to him and offers a nod, then focuses back on Nyss.

“Ready?” he asks, rolling up the map with a wave of his hand.

“Ready,” Nyss confirms.

With a sharp tug, she dislodges the bright blue pendant hanging on her neck and presents it on the palm of her hand.

“Until I’m home again,” she says, the same line Essek makes all of his Shadows repeat, every single time, no matter how unlikely it is that they will ever make it back. She smiles a crooked smile.

“Until you’re home again,” Essek responds quietly, taking the pendant from her hand.

Its weight on his neck is, as always, staggering.

*

Time _drags_.

Essek floats around the room, aware that his restless energy serves no purpose. The Mighty Nein is gathered around the map, Essek’s magic keeping the illusion up as they discuss and dismiss one plan after another, each more horrendous than the last one. Lythir sits at the table in the corner of the room, with one ankle resting on the knee of his other leg; he is playing with a silver dagger in his hands, the smile on his lips as dismissive as it always is around the Mighty Nein. Essek pays him no mind, most of the time, though a part of him wishes he had not made an enemy out of a man who has so much useful resources at his disposal.

Finally, even the Mighty Nein settles on the floor, apparently done with planning for now.

Essek continues to move around the room, counting seconds and minutes in his head, aware that the mission is already taking too long. If they captured Nyss before she could reach the Beacon, Essek will never be able to retrieve her.

“For fuck’s sake,” Lythir speaks up suddenly in Undercommon, causing Essek to stop and the Mighty Nein to look up. “Will you stop this? You’re giving me a headache.”

Essek blinks, realizing that his magic was, indeed, going a little haywire; not enough for the Mighty Nein to notice, but apparently enough for Lythir to sense it.

Essek closes his eyes. “I apologize,” he says tersely, forcing himself to relax again.

Lythir puts his dagger away. “You get used to it,” he says, still looking at Essek. Uncharacteristically, his voice is devoid of hostility. “If you do this long enough, you just get used to it. Siverlin was once just like you.”

There is a thousand sharp remarks on the tip of Essek’s tongue, but he swallows them all down.

“If you say so,” he says, summoning his spell book, for the lack of anything more useful to do. He flips through it idly.

He is redrawing one of the symbols in the book when the teleportation circle flares up suddenly and there, in the exact middle of the circle, is the Beacon itself.

Time stops, just for a second, as Essek looks to Lythir. He has been dreading this moment for a while, knowing that with Queen’s favor, Lythir can delay them as long as he pleases.

But Lythir simply nods and says, “Go.”

The Mighty Nein, to their credit, is on their feet within seconds, just as Essek finishes focusing on his spell.

The first attempt is blocked, and Essek grits his teeth as he focuses again, picking a spot a little farther away from their target and casting again.

They land unsteadily on moist grass in the middle of an imperial forest. The Mighty Nein sways a little on their feet, wincing and groaning, but they don’t comment on the mishap. The sky is still dark, but it’s slowly beginning to brighten, a soft violet hue smudged between the crowns of trees.

“How far away are we?” Beauregard asks.

Essek shrugs, focused on choosing the right direction. “I brought us as close as I could.”

They make their way through the forest at a brisk pace, but it's still nearly an hour before they reach the edge of the tree line. The sky is now bathed in soft golden glow. 

It’s obvious, nearly right away, that they are too late.

The gates leading to the manor are thrown open, as is the main door. The lights are off. There are no guards in sight and when Essek focuses, he doesn’t sense anyone of the Assembly’s level of magical power anywhere close by.

“Well, this is weird,” Jester comments.

“They’re gone,” Essek says as they come to a stop before the gates. “You can stay here as I investigate.”

“It could be a trap,” Nott points out, narrowing her eyes as she looks at the door in the distance.

“Oh, it most definitely is,” Essek says. “If I’m not back soon, I believe you can find your way to Rosohna.”

“And tell the Queen what, exactly?” Fjord says, stepping closer to Essek. “That we left her Shadowhand to die, after we specifically promised not to do just that?”

“We’re coming,” Caleb says, stepping forward as well. “I know a bit of the magic the Assembly might be using to protect this place. That could be of use to you.”

_I can handle this_ , Essek wants to snap, but the truth is — he doesn’t know if he can handle this.

He sighs. “Very well.”

The gate is made of iron, imposing in its weight and its elegance, metallic vines and leaves curling in the center into an unfamiliar coat of arms, now cut in half as the gates are thrown open. Behind the gates, there is a cobblestoned path leading up to the manor. There should, logically, be a garden, but instead there is just empty space, stretching for yards and yards. The ground is ashen-dry. There are no bushes, no flowers, no trees.

“That’s not how I remember this place,” Caleb says with a frown.

Essek nods in acknowledgement, looking more closely to the house now. While the building looks just like the one construed by Essek’s spell, there is a strange bleakness to its walls. The high windows barely reflect the soft hue of morning light. As Essek watches, a part of the bluish paint peels off the wall and floats to the ground, disturbing the dust.

“Well, are we coming in?” Beauregard asks from a little ways behind him.

Essek doesn’t reply, still staring at the paint. Another part of it peels off, slowly but surely. The dust settles over it again. A gust of wind blows across the empty space, bringing forth a smell of rot.

Essek takes a deep breath and with a snap of his fingers, he summons Acantha. She offers a hoot in greeting, perching lightly on his shoulder, happy to see Essek as she always is.

“I apologize, my love,” Essek says quietly, pressing a kiss to her tiny head.

She hoots again in understanding, kneading at his shoulder for a moment before pushing off with a fierce flap of her wings, the feathers brushing just once against Essek’s cheek.

For a moment, nothing happens. Acantha flies through the gates, spreading her wings wide, and a spark of hope flickers in Essek’s chest. And then Acantha’s wings begin to tremble with effort, her lovely feathers begin to fall out. As Essek watches, she gives a small, terrified hoot and falters mid-flight as rot begins to consume her body entirely. With a sickening crackle, shiny white bones fall to the cobblestones.

Right behind Essek’s shoulder, the Mighty Nein collectively inhales.

“Well,” Essek says, watching his nightmare incarnate as Dunamancy lives and breathes beneath imperial skies, “I believe you will be staying here.”

“What the _fuck_ is that?” Beauregard asks, looking over Essek’s shoulder.

“Dunamancy,” Caleb replies from Essek’s other side, the horror and fascination in his voice nearly equal. “Time magic.”

“Yes,” Essek confirms. He reaches for the pendants hanging around his neck. Nyss’ pendant remains still and cold, but another pendant grows slightly warmer. It’s Rylan’s.

“Well,” Essek says again. “I suppose that answers the other question.”

This will not be an easy feat. While the spell is clearly Dunamantic in nature, time magic is volatile and unreliable. Essek has never seen it used like this.

“Can’t you dispel it from here?” Jester asks.

Essek shakes his head. “I don’t believe so, no,” he says.

“I don’t think so, either,” Caleb says quietly, his gaze trained on the manor, his expression contemplative.

Essek nods, his resolve firming. “One of my Shadows is in there, somewhere. Perhaps in a room where time is not quite as tangled as here. Perhaps not. I will attempt to retrieve her, but if I fail, you must relay the news to the Bright Queen. If the Assembly has learned to manipulate time, we are in far more danger than we’ve thought.”

Caleb frowns. “Even with your lifespan,” he says, “I don’t think you can make it through this courtyard, Essek.”

Essek shrugs. “I have no intention of simply moving through it,” he says. “Even if I cannot dispel the magic, I do believe I can shield myself from the effects of the spell, if only for a little while. I’ll be fine.”

“Then I’ll come with you,” Caleb says.

There is a pause.

“Like _hell_ you will,” Nott says, catching Caleb’s sleeve.

“I don’t believe that’s a good idea, Caleb,” Yasha offers quietly.

“No, no, no,” Jester says. “You’re already really old, you can’t go in there.”

“Thank you, Jester,” Caleb says, though he smiles a little.

“It doesn’t seem very wise,” Caduceus points out.

“It seems stupid as hell, actually,” Fjord adds. “I’m sure Essek can handle himself. Can’t you?”

“I can handle myself, too,” Caleb says sharply.

“Are you sure about this?” Beauregard asks.

Caleb meets her gaze, something about his demeanor shifting slightly. “I am,” he confirms.

“I don’t like this,” Jester says unhappily. Beauregard reaches out and squeezes her hand.

“He’ll be fine,” she says. Then, turning to Essek, she adds, “I better not see a single grey hair on his head.”

“I’m hardly forcing him to go,” Essek points out tiredly, because while he genuinely does believe he can shield himself from the spell, he knows it will be that much harder when he has to protect Caleb, too.

“My point stands,” Beauregard says, tugging Jester away from the gate. “We’ll be waiting here.”

“Shouldn’t we go, too?” Nott asks, still holding onto Caleb’s sleeve.

“I can’t keep all of you safe,” Essek says. “That would drain my magic too quickly. Caleb, if you wish to go, please stay close. I might not be able to maintain the shield if we’re separated.”

“Understood,” Caleb says, dropping a kiss to the top of Nott’s head. To Essek’s surprise, he doesn’t catch his sleeve; instead he slips his hand into Essek’s hold, tangling their fingers together. The calm in his eyes is more steadying than Essek would like to admit. “Ready when you are.”

Visualizing forces of gravity comes easy to Essek. Threads of power link objects to the ground, pull them to one another, tether all of the world together.

Visualizing time is another matter entirely.

He focuses on the barely noticeable brightening of the sunlight in the unfamiliar sky. He focuses on the rhythm of his own breathing, on the echo of two heartbeats beating just out of synch. He breathes in, breathes out, breathes in again. Then he brushes his thumb against the pulse-point on Caleb’s wrist.

_“A few minutes?” Essek had asked, a long time ago, leaning forward in his wheelchair._

_“Yes,” Faye had replied, her smile indulgent and warm._

_“How?” Essek had said. “You’ve told me that this kind of drain of power could be deadly.”_

_“Yes,” Faye had said again. “It is.”_

_“Then why?”_

_“Oh, darling,” Faye had said. “You’ll find, one day, that death matters very little when it comes to love.”_

Somewhere in this manor, there is his Shadow. His charge, his responsibility. Rylan, who doesn’t like it when anyone, not even Essek, intrudes on her space. Rylan who traces her fingers through layers and layers of dust every single time she returns home. Rylan, who rarely smiles and doesn’t laugh, but who is clever and young and so very brave.

Rylan, whom Essek loves, like he loves his entire patchwork family of brittle and broken things.

There are rivulets of sand spiraling in the air. Not visible, of course, not tangible — it’s just Essek’s mind visualizing concepts far out of visual perception. Magic is not just knowledge, Faye told him once, magic is _instinct_. And now, watching the rivulets of sand shift and tangle, spiral and curl — now Essek finally understands.

_If there is no path, darling, then make one_ , Faye said. _If you only ever get one answer, ask a different question._

Essek cannot bend time, not like this. But he can bend gravity.

Creating spells has never been easy, even in the silence of Faye’s house. It usually took hours and hours, drawing and redrawing, researching, perfecting, practicing — but he doesn’t have this kind of time now.

Slowly, he opens his eyes. The Mighty Nein is blessedly silent behind them and Caleb is standing by his side, watching him curiously.

“Alright,” Essek says to himself, focuses, and acting more on instinct than anything else, raises one hand and begins to weave a shield, using the force of gravity to bend time.

The force of gravity, of course, resists.

“Stay here,” Essek tells Caleb, stepping forward just enough so that their joined hands are out of reach of the spell. He waits, adjusting the hold on his magic.

He can nearly feel the sand, brushing lightly against his skin, the rivulets spiraling faster and faster in the air, his own power only a thin barrier between him and the unending onslaught threatening to drown him, to pour down his throat and fill up his lungs. Still, nothing happens. The passage of time has no effect on him at all, even as dust and ash pool around his feet.

“Well, motherfucker,” Beauregard says.

“You should stay here,” Essek says, addressing Caleb. “I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to keep you safe.”

Caleb glances back to his friends, first, and then up to the manor. Finally, he focuses his gaze on Essek. His thumb swipes lightly over Essek’s knuckles.

“Let’s go,” he says.

He is curious about time magic, of course, that’s all there is to it. Still, his hand is warm in Essek’s hold, and with his presence it’s a little easier not to be terrified, even though the tug on Essek’s magic becomes more persistent when Caleb passes the gates.

Essek turns around and looks to the manor. He can feel the magic swirling around the building now, and its sheer power is so overwhelming that he can’t sense anything else, not even the familiar flare of Rylan’s magic. Her pendant is still warm, though, and that means something — it has to mean something.

Essek moves forward and the shield adjusts accordingly, single thread by single thread. Rivulets of sand still dance in the air, curling and uncurling, shimmering in soft morning light.

Acantha’s bones are already turning to dust, stark white against the marble stairs leading up to the manor. Essek steps over them carefully, reminding himself that unlike most thing, this is something he can fix.

Before he can make it through the threshold, Caleb tugs at his hand lightly and casts a detection spell. It’s an unnecessary precaution; if there were any wards on the door, Essek would be able to sense them. Still, instead of the expected flare of resentment, Essek feels a pang of affection.

The hall of the manor is deserted as well, a thick layer of dust covering the floor while the paint methodically peels off the walls. There is a chandelier hanging low off the ceiling, swaying lightly in the draft, tiny crystals glimmering in dusty light.

Caleb pauses at the door, staring up at the wide staircase leading up, his mouth set into a thin line.

Essek looks at him from the corner of his eye, still keeping most of his focus on the shielding spell. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”

Caleb spares him a glance, then huffs a breath and shakes his head. His hand is warm and clammy in Essek’s hold and his pulse is racing, but he steps into the building all the same.

“It’s been too late for a very long time,” he says vaguely, looking around the hall.

There will be time to ask about it later, perhaps, but there is no time now. Essek focuses again and this time he senses just a wisp of Rylan’s magic in the air. It’s faint, fainter than it should ever be, but it’s still sharp and clear like the smell of fresh snow.

Caleb casts another detection spell and looks towards the staircase again.

“Upstairs,” he says, with a strange resignation echoing in his voice. “That’s where the magic is weaker.”

Essek nods. It makes sense, of course; if time was similarly bent in the entire building, Rylan would have long been dead, her bones turned to greyish dust littering the floors.

He moves to the staircase, but Caleb tugs him back again, casting another spell. The air right before the staircase glimmers softly like a puff of dust in bright sunlight, and settles again, the magic dispelled.

Essek frowns. “How did you…?”

“I knew it was there,” Caleb says quietly. “I’ve told you. I’ve been here before.”

Essek looks at him for a moment longer, but Caleb keeps staring blankly ahead, his expression unreadable.

Focusing once again on the shield, Essek steps forward. The oppressive magic is even more potent in the building, its pressure mounting and mounting, until Essek is aware of every breath he lets in and out.

The sand is getting heavier.

At the top of the stairs is a single door. There are corridors leading in both directions and then angling around the room in the center, but now that Essek can follow the thread of Rylan’s magic, he knows exactly where to go. He glances to Caleb, whose gaze is focused firmly on the locked door as well.

“Ready?” Essek asks.

Caleb offers a small nod, but he doesn’t say anything. Before Essek can reach out to the door, Caleb waves his hand in the air in a gesture — incantation? — Essek doesn’t recognize, and the lock clicks quietly as the door creaks open. Inside it’s dusty and dark, the smell of rot pungent and heavy.

And then there’s a flash of steel.

Essek moves back on instinct, remembering in the very last moment that if he slows down time, he’ll have to drop the shield. A quick movement in the dark and Essek manages just to inch away as the blade slashes at him again, and then — and then there’s a sudden rush of wind and a loud thud as a body hits the wall on the opposite side of the room and all torches catch fire at once.

Essek blinks at the brightness, his heart still beating wildly in his chest. Then he glances to his side. Caleb has one hand outstretched, his magic still thrumming in the air, and he seems just as shocked as Essek is. Slowly, he drops his hand to his side, and the man on the opposite side of the room collapses to the floor.

With considerable effort, Essek drags his gaze away from Caleb and looks into the room again. The man is already struggling to his feet, so Essek lifts him up in the air and pushes him back into the wall again. The spell takes a greedy bite at his power and the whisper of time grows louder for a moment. It sounds like laughter. It sounds like waves climbing up distant shores.

Essek shakes his head, blinking the world back into focus.

In the center of the room, tied to a wooden chair, is Rylan. Essek recognizes her right away, even though her hair is grey rather than copper-red, falling around her gaunt face like a dirty halo. As she tilts her head up, her eyes are clouded and unseeing, set deep in her face. Essek spares a moment to wonder how the spell could age her hundreds of years without killing her first, with starvation or dehydration, but there will be time to ponder that later.

“It’s me, Rylan,” he calls out softly. “We’re going home now.”

There is a sharp snort and Essek’s gaze snaps to the man still pressed against the wall in the back of the room. He is old, most likely magically aged, just like Rylan is. His features are undeniably elven, even though his hair is grey just like Rylan’s, his face just as hollowed-out. His clothes are ragged and sagging on his gaunt body, his fingers constantly twitching for the dagger he dropped on the floor. The skin on his forearms is just scar tissue.

Having caught Essek’s eye, the Scourger smiles a yellow-toothed smile.

“I don’t think she’s going anywhere,” he says. “She has minutes left, if that. As do I.”

Pressed against the opposite wall is a long wooden table, with various sharp objects scattered carelessly on top. The steel is stained brown and red, just like the sleeves of Rylan’s undershirt.

Essek can feel his magic thrum beneath his skin with a wave of familiar fury. The whisper of time fades to the back of his mind, the pressure of the omnipresent enchantment falling away. There is only anger trapped in his chest, sizzling like a fire, building like a storm.

“You think you will die here?” Essek hisses, barely recognizing his own voice as his magic crawls across the room, tangling threads of gravity until the Scourger is gasping for air. “You think you will die beneath your familiar skies?”

“Essek —”

Caleb’s voice barely registers as Essek tilts his head to the side, still looking at the Scourger. He can feel the pressure his magic puts on the Scourger’s chest. It’s like reaching in and squeezing the man’s lungs with his bare hands, only — only _better_.

And then Rylan coughs quietly.

Essek blinks and lets go of the Scourger. He barely pays attention as the man falls to the floor, gasping for breath. He reaches for his dagger again, but with a sharp movement of his hand, Caleb sends it flying across the room and buries it several inches deep in the wall.

Without sparing the Scourger another glance, Essek rushes to Rylan’s side, tugging Caleb along, and drops his hold on the Levitation spell, uncaring for once about appearances of power and grace as he falls heavily to his knees. Caleb, still holding his hand, takes a sharp breath.

“I’m sorry, Rylan,” Essek says quietly. “I’m sorry, I’m here.”

Wishing he had the foresight to keep his right hand free instead of his left one, he fumbles for the dagger at his belt.

“Rylan, listen to me,” he says, “I have to touch your ankles and your wrists, to take the binds off. I have to. I’m sorry.”

Rylan tilts her head up in his direction, just a bit, but her gaze remains unfocused.

Essek swallows heavily, weighing the dagger in his hand.

“I can help,” Caleb offers quietly.

Though Rylan doesn’t react to the suggestion at all, Essek shakes his head.

“No, Caleb. Thank you, but I’ve got this,” he says. “If you could instead hold on to my wrist?”

Caleb does as he is told, moving his hand to Essek’s wrist without breaking the contact between them, and Essek passes his dagger to his right hand.

“Rylan, I’m going to touch your left wrist now,” he says.

He swiftly slides his fingers beneath the binds to protect Rylan’s skin from the blade. Rylan flinches, her body tensing and relaxing, and the ever-present cold weight grows even heavier in Essek’s chest.

“Your right ankle,” he continues, moves again, cuts again.

He cuts the last bind when Rylan’s body goes limp, nearly falling forward before Essek catches her with one arm. The Scourger, lying flat on his back now and coughing up blood, laughs out loud.

“Ah,” he chokes out, “it seems you might have run out of, well, _time_.”

Essek breathes in, breathes out. He can still feel Rylan’s heartbeat, but it is getting slower now. The sand is falling, falling, falling. The whisper of time grows louder. Blood tastes of iron in his mouth.

He hopes that Rylan still has at least hours and not just minutes left; he hopes that slowing down the time for her will make a difference, any difference at all. The pull on his magic is unbearable now, but he bears it all the same. He settles Rylan gently on the floor, careful to keep his hold on her hand, careful to keep her under the protection of his shield.

The Scourger _tsks_ again. “Well, I suppose that could work,” he drawls, tilting his head to the side to spit some more blood onto the floor. “You won’t have much use of her, though. And your other spy? I’d scoop up some of the dust downstairs.”

“You are lying,” Essek says, without even caring to look up. “I have been playing this game longer than you can imagine.”

The Scourger falls silent at that. Essek’s spell is still keeping him pinned to the floor, but his magic is stretching thin now. Perhaps too thin for Essek to do what he must do, but he will try regardless.

“Caleb,” he says, “start drawing a teleportation circle around us. If the shield falters, take us out of here.”

“Can’t you simply teleport us out?” Caleb asks, though he kneels by Essek’s side right away, maneuvering around him to start drawing the familiar symbols on the ground. His hand once again slips into Essek’s own.

Essek manages a smile. “I’m afraid I can’t. I have to take this enchantment down.”

Caleb pauses at that, if only for a second, the blue of his eyes startlingly clear in the bright torchlight. It’s quite a lovely sight. “You’ve said it can’t be dispelled.”

“It’s very likely that it can’t,” Essek says. He knows what he must do and so he will do it. The path is clear. “But if we simply leave, Rylan will die.”

He should not be referring to his Shadows by their names. Then again, he should not be kneeling in an imperial building with an imperial wizard, trusting him with their lives.

“So what are you going to do?” Caleb asks.

Essek smiles shakily. “I suppose I’ll try to bend time a few centuries back.”

“A few _centuries_ ,” Caleb repeats. “You’ve told me that it was risky to reach back a few _seconds_ —”

Essek licks his lips, nearly able to taste his own sweat. His vision is beginning to swim already with the amount of power he is putting into maintaining the shield.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “I suppose you’ll be getting your answers far earlier than I expected, Caleb,” he says. He swallows, tasting iron again. “See, the problem with bending time is that to undo all that has been done, the universe needs _power_. All things that fell must defeat gravity. All things that died must be brought to life. There is some balance, of course. Some things were born. Some things took flight. But the gap… the gap has to be filled.”

Caleb blinks. “All things,” he echoes. “All things _in the universe_?”

Essek smiles a tired smile. “Now you understand.” He closes his eyes. “I’ll only be bending time in this room. And considering the way this enchantment affects reality, I imagine not much has happened here in the centuries that passed in the last half an hour. It’ll be alright.”

There is a pause. “You’re _lying_ ,” Caleb says, in quiet disbelief. “You don’t think it’ll be alright at all.”

Essek shrugs without opening his eyes. “Death matters very little when it comes to love,” he quotes with another weak smile. “Just… just get us out of here when it’s done.”

There is a long, long pause, and then Caleb says, very quietly, “Okay.”

“Good,” Essek says. “Thank you.”

He focuses on the rivulets of sand again, letting everything else fall to the back of his mind. Immediately, his magic twists in his mind with a blinding pain. He barely registers as Caleb stops drawing, leaving one last symbol unfinished, and settles cross-legged right in front of Essek, careful not to touch Rylan. He can feel Caleb’s gaze on him, but the awareness is far away now.

Essek reaches out until he can no longer feel his body at all, until all of his consciousness is tangled completely with what’s left of his magic. His head no longer hurts; the word no longer applies. The pain is just a bright awareness now, clawing at his muscles, gnawing at his bones.

It’s like trying to hold the ocean in the palms of his own hands. It’s like trying to stop an avalanche with a gust of breath, like trying to force a river to change its route by tossing stones at its bed. The rivulets of sand spiral around him, racing faster and faster, while the whisper of time grows into a hurricane.

_“You did everything you could, darling,” Faye had said. “That’s all any of us can ever hope to do.”_

_“And yet it wasn’t enough,” Essek had replied, days and days later, words clawing wildly at his throat until finally they managed to crawl out of his mouth. “It wasn’t nearly enough.”_

_“It was more than you’ll ever know.”_

With monumental effort, he staggers the enchantment to a halt and then inch by inch, breath by breath, begins to tug it back. He can taste his own blood, but that doesn’t matter. He can sense darkness creeping in, but that doesn’t matter, either. He breathes in, breathes out. His heart beats loud, loud, loud. The pain in his body sings, sings, sings. The whispers of time tell stories of impossible things.

And then the hold on his right hand is gone. Essek eyes snap open, but not nearly fast enough to react as Caleb pulls away, cuts a straight line through the palm of his hand, and catches Essek’s hand again, palm to palm. Though they haven’t been touching only for a moment, the spell surely stole at least a few weeks from Caleb’s life.

Essek opens his mouth to say something, but then he feels a sting on the palm of his own hand as Caleb squeezes his hand harder, and he remembers the cut he made to create the plan of the manor.

_Magic isn’t knowledge, darling. Magic is instinct. Magic is_ blood _._

And suddenly, there is _power_. Reckless and foreign and fire-bright, running up Essek’s veins, rippling over his skin, filling his mind to the brim. He closes his eyes and he is in a field that spreads and spreads and spreads, in all directions, the grain gold with sunlight, swaying like endless waves in an open sea. There is laughter and there are songs, in a language he recognizes but doesn’t understand, and there is belonging and there is love and there is hope. There is a cottage with a red birdhouse and a blue front door, there are warm arms curling around him and holding him close.

The power in Essek’s veins is a forest fire, a blaze of a falling star. It’s beautiful and violent and bright.

The sand is still falling, in rivers and cascades, but it’s no match for him now. With a single push, the magic within the building trembles and unwinds, the rivulets of sand unfolding like ribbons tugged loose by pulling at the right end. The enchantment falls all at once, toppling over like a house of cards.

Essek’s eyes snap open just as Rylan sucks in a breath.

The Scourger, still lying flat on the floor, is once again a young Elven man. Rylan’s hair is copper-red, her eyes fire-bright, her hand warm in Essek’s hold.

Caleb is still sitting right before Essek, his lips parted, his eyes wide, his power still flowing freely through Essek’s veins until, almost reluctantly, Caleb loosens the hold and withdraws his hand.

Essek swallows through the dryness in his throat and looks to Rylan. She has already pulled her hand from his grasp and she is already struggling to her feet, her knees trembling only a little as she stands.

“Hello, Rylan,” Essek says. He reaches to the chain around his neck and disconnects the green pendant, offering it to her, palm up. “Welcome back.”

She acknowledges his words with a nod and picks the pendant up, careful not to touch Essek’s skin.

And then she looks to the Scourger.

There is a gust of wind and the tools left on the bloodied table all tremble and rise. The Scourger pales as Rylan stalks towards him, the metallic tools gliding slowly in the air, following in her wake. Rylan’s power is thrumming loud with a question she doesn’t need to ask out loud. The Scourger backs against the wall, raising his hands in placation.

“They took her away!” he says. “I don’t know where! They all teleported away!”

Silver-quick, one of the blades cuts across the Scourger’s face. Rylan’s lips move soundlessly to spell out, _Try again_.

Essek sighs. Slowly, he tugs at gravity again, forcing himself up on his feet. He falters, his magic protesting in agony, until Caleb catches his hand again.

“Let me help,” he says quietly. The brush of his power is alluringly warm.

A part of Essek wants to accept the simple comfort. Another part of Essek recoils violently.

“I’m fine,” he says, turning sharply away.

Miraculously, his hold on gravity doesn’t falter as he makes his way over to Rylan, telegraphing his movements and stopping a good two feet away from her.

“Rylan,” he says quietly but firmly, “we need to go.”

Rylan looks to him, her eyes blazing. With a quick movement of her hands, she signs, _We need to find Nyss_.

“Yes,” Essek says. “And we will. But not today.”

Rylan holds his gaze with an air of disobedience that Essek is very familiar with. Nonetheless, she finally offers a jerky nod and steps away from the Scourger. Before Essek can raise a hand, she has the Scourger bound, threads of ice curled around his body like a rope.

Though the humiliation of needing help is still fresh in Essek’s mind, he turns back to Caleb.

“Thank you,” he says shortly, wishing he didn’t remember the warmth of Caleb’s magic so very clearly. He’s unlikely to ever forget it, now.

“ _Ja_ , of course, it’s nothing,” Caleb says quietly. “That was… that was incredible, Essek.”

The part of Essek that has recoiled earlier tenses even further.

“And yet it was not nearly enough,” he says, stepping back again.

He slips the pendants — along with the blue one, cold as death — back underneath his mantle.

“It wasn’t enough _yet_ ,” Caleb says, echoing Essek’s words back at him. “But we’ll find a way. We’ll _make_ a way.”

That small part of Essek that should no longer exist wants to believe him very much. But he is the Shadowhand to the Queen and lately he has grown too old and weary for fairy tales. He looks to the bloodied tools scattered around Rylan’s feet and he closes his eyes briefly.

“ _I_ will,” he says. “As I always do. Of that I have no doubt.”

Caleb frowns at him, opening his mouth to say something else, but the Mighty Nein pushes into the room just then, excited in their chattering, and Essek has to stop Rylan from throwing a wave of ice shreds at the door, while Caleb has to organize his friends to step into the teleportation circle before the symbols fade away.

Caleb’s magic, warm, foreign, and fire-bright, takes them all back home.

*

Rylan runs her fingers over the dusty shelves and tabletops, sending specks of silver into flight. She has spent the last few hours with the Healers and then another few hours with Essek and Lythir, explaining in a series of sharp signs mixed with telepathic messages how she had been captured and how Nyss sneaked into the building and would have been able to sneak right back out, the Beacon safely in Rosohna, had she not decided to try to save Rylan’s life.

_Foolish_ , Rylan had signed, leaning back in her chair, her gaze fixed on the window, the truth spell bending and circling around her. _She should have left me behind._

Essek cut the interrogation short when it became clear that Rylan had no immediately useful information that would help him track down Nyss. Lythir, to his credit, agreed to continue the following day without putting up much of a fight.

Now, though, Essek has escorted Rylan back home, and his day is nearly done. The Mighty Nein, at least, has decided to let him be, though Caleb lingered a moment longer than his friends, looking at Essek and clearly searching for words to say before shaking his head, just once, and walking away as well.

_Thank you_ , Rylan signs now, returning to him as she finishes examining her home. _It’s good to be back._

“It’s good to have you home,” Essek says. “As it always is.”

Her hair is braided now. Her injuries have been healed. Her scars, in time, will fade away. The green pendant is hanging securely around her neck, where it belongs. Essek has failed her, has failed her completely, but he managed to fix it somewhat, and the cold weight in his gut thaws just a little. He raises his hand and casts the usual protective spells on her home, and Rylan looks around as the shimmering glow spreads, the last of tension leaving her shoulders.

_Acantha?_ she signs, her hands coming together to show the signs for _feather_ and _flight_.

“I will have her visit you later,” Essek promises, swallowing past a wave of nausea that comes with the memory of brittle bird bones. “She has missed you quite a lot.”

Rylan offers a small nod, and then steps back into the warmth of her house, closing the door. Essek waits until he hears the lock click securely and only then he turns away, moving down the steps and towards the main street and his own house.

With how his day is going, he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised to find Caleb waiting on the steps of his house, with his spell book in his lap.

Essek is so, so very tired.

“I believe I’ve told you,” he says, barely able to keep his voice steady, “to go home.”

Caleb closes the book and looks up. “ _Ja_ ,” he says. “You did.”

Essek closes his eyes and then forces them open again. He makes his way past Caleb without saying anything else, pushes the door open and barely resists the urge to slam it shut again. Caleb, naturally, follows him inside, and Essek’s wards, naturally, allow him right through.

“I won’t bother you,” Caleb says quietly. “I just…”

“Yes?” Essek prompts impatiently, moving to the kitchen. Acantha’s perch is, naturally, empty. Nyss’ forest-green mug is still sitting peacefully on the kitchen counter.

“It can be very dangerous, to drain your magic like that,” Caleb says eventually, weighing his words. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

Essek snorts, unkind. “I’ve been through far worse things alone,” he says, picking up the mug and weighing it in his hands for a moment before setting it on its usual spot on the shelf.

Caleb doesn’t react to the words. He keeps looking at Essek instead, with a strangely singular focus.

“What you did today,” he says quietly, “was very noble. And very brave.”

Essek sighs. “Caleb —”

“I haven’t met all that many powerful people who are either of those things,” Caleb continues, undeterred. “Let alone both.”

Essek closes his eyes. He thinks of Caleb’s power, warm and fire-bright. He thinks of the cottage with a red birdhouse and a blue front door. He thinks of the cold weight in his gut, growing heavier every day. He thinks of the Mighty Nein, of their courage and light, and he thinks of his own two hands, stained with so much blood.

There are, perhaps, fairy tales. But Essek is not a hero in one.

“The Scourger we caught,” he says distantly, opening his eyes to meet Caleb’s gaze, registering the confusion there before moving on, “he is, by elven standards, barely an adult.”

“I… suppose?”

“Tomorrow,” Essek says, looking to the empty perch by the window, “I will go to the Dungeon of Penance and I will break every single bone in his body, until he spills all secrets he has.”

Caleb still doesn’t step back, though some of the color does drain from his face. Essek looks at him detachedly. It’s for the best. Whatever this is, there is no room for it in Essek’s life. There only is room for the weight around his neck, the one he carries like an anchor that one day will cause him to drown. He has been putting off that particular sentence for quite a while now.

Caleb swallows. “You will do what you have to do,” he says eventually. “Why are you telling me this?”

“If it’s you someday,” Essek says, focusing on nothing but the rain whispering gently against the crystalline windows of his home, “I’ll do the exact same thing.”

He expects Caleb to recoil — but Caleb doesn’t even blink.

“Yes,” he says thoughtfully. “I suppose you will. Your point?”

Essek sighs impatiently. “I am not noble, Caleb, and I am not brave. I’m a spymaster fighting a war. I’ve done terrible things and I will keep doing terrible things. This is all I am.”

Caleb frowns, crossing his arms. “I don’t think that’s necessarily true.”

“My loyalty to the Dynasty will not waver,” Essek continues, pushing past the desire to give in, to paint himself in a kinder light. “If I ever have to choose, I will not hesitate. And whatever you are looking for here, I believe you deserve better than that.”

For a long moment, there is silence as Caleb unflinchingly maintains eye contact. Then he says coolly, “You have no idea what I deserve.”

Essek sighs. “Caleb —”

“Haven’t you wondered how I knew that building?” Caleb interrupts, letting his hands fall to his sides, strangely confident now, strangely calm. “The Vollstrecker in your Dungeon of Penance. It’s not just that he _could_ be me. He _is_ me.”

Essek shakes his head. “I do know about your training, Caleb,” he says patiently. “I’ve figured it out a long time ago.”

“It’s not just my training,” Caleb says, still eerily calm. “I’ve killed people. Tortured people. Betrayed people. Some of them were your people. Some of them, most likely, were your Shadows.”

To hear it said so plainly is different than to think it in the silence of his own mind. Nonetheless, Essek has had his suspicions for a very long time and while the knowledge is heavy, it’s far from novel.

“Yes, I imagine some of them were,” he says quietly. “But unlike you, Caleb, I’ve always had a choice. And I’ve made it, over and over again.”

Caleb tilts his head to the side, still watching Essek detachedly. “And why, again, did you make it?”

Essek blinks. “Excuse me?”

“It’s a simple enough question,” Caleb says, intent in the exact same way he was when he first caught Essek bending time. “Why did you become the Shadowhand? The job clearly doesn’t bring you much joy. So why not quit? Why not let someone else do it?”

“Someone else?” Essek snaps. “Who? _Lythir_? He wouldn’t even try — he wouldn’t even _try_ to —”

“No,” Caleb agrees quietly, when Essek runs out of words. “He wouldn’t, would he? Few people would. And yet — and yet you do.”

Essek doesn’t reply, but Caleb clearly doesn’t need a response. Slowly, he pushes up the sleeves of his coat and shirt to reveal the scars on his forearms. Their pattern is familiar, and though Essek has known of their existence, it doesn’t make it easier to look at them now, not because they are ugly, but because they speak of so much pain.

“I had these, yes,” Caleb says, leaving his sleeves curled up. Then he steps closer, reaches out and brushes his fingertips lightly against the front of Essek’s mantle, exactly where the pendants are hidden. “But you have those. We both had our reasons. And we both made our choices.”

Essek doesn’t say anything, shocked to the core with the ease with which Caleb extracted the information he wanted and the ease with which he read the truth out of things Essek never said.

Caleb offers a nod and pushes his sleeves down. “I’ll let you rest now.”

He turns around to leave. The cut on Essek’s hands stings sharply when he reaches out, catching Caleb’s sleeve, and he is once again met with the startling blue of Caleb’s eyes.

He clears his throat. “I… What you did today… Thank you.”

“Of course,” Caleb says, though his gaze shifts away. “I’m glad I was of some use.”

The smile he offers is lopsided, familiarly self-deprecating again, and suddenly Essek can’t stand it, even at the cost of his own pride. The eerie calm was more troubling, of course, but Essek knows there is more than that now, has seen Caleb cast and has seen him laugh, and he wouldn’t mind seeing it again.

“Caleb,” he says, prompting him to look up. “I couldn’t have done it without your help.”

Caleb looks somewhere above Essek’s shoulder. “I’m sure you could have, it would just take —”

“No,” Essek interrupts. “I couldn’t have. Without your magic, I wouldn’t have been able to break that spell. Not many… not many people would trust me with their power like that.” He pauses again. He wants to ask why Caleb would, why he would risk himself like that, but that — that is dangerous territory. Instead, he says, “I shall endeavor to prove worthy of that trust. Thank you.”

Caleb blinks at that, apparently taken aback. “You’re… you’re welcome,” he says tentatively, as if testing the words out, and isn’t that funny — the two of them trying to hold gentleness in such bloodied hands.

Oddly, the need to brush it all off, to pull his defenses up and push Caleb away, doesn’t come. Instead, there is a strange sense of calm settling deep in Essek’s bones as he holds on to the coarse, thin sleeve of Caleb’s coat.

His thoughts, for once, are perfectly still.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! ♥


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